


The Making of a Miracle

by smarny



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Gen, Hilda single handedly earning that T rating, M/M, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Original Character(s), Original pegasus characters, Original wyvern characters, Slow Burn, Verdant Wind Spoilers, canon-typical levels of dimitri violence or maybe less ????, character and relationship tags to change, dancer!linhardt, it's MY fanfiction and I get to choose Claude's parents, possibly silver snow spoilers too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2020-10-25 10:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 85,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20722667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarny/pseuds/smarny
Summary: Seteth raises an eyebrow as he tries to sneak past. "I hope you know what you're doing.""Of course I do," Claude lies.In 1185, Claude makes a promise. Join the war, fight the war, win the war, and also don't kill anyone along the way. Easy. Nothing could be easier. It might take a miracle, but maybe that's what he's got.Verdant Wind route; everybody lives, nobody dies. Yes, everybody.





	1. Prologue - The Promise

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thank you to my incredible partner Tom, who not only did all the spg editing and made this actually readable, but was also astonishingly patient as I threw around ideas and plans in the middle of the night when she was trying to sleep. This fic also wouldn't exist without the encouragement and advice of Birds, whose support is absolutely invaluable and rivalled only by their intelligence, talent and skill. Thank you both.

_ “You overslept,Teach!” _  
_ ... _  
_ “You didn’t really think I’d given up on you coming back, did you?” _

Claude barely sees the arrow that nearly takes his life. He could blame the dusk; he could blame the meal sitting like a stone in his stomach; he could blame the fact that against all odds, by some sheer miracle, Teach was alive and safe and present: nonetheless, he almost doesn’t see it, and when he pulls his head back he feels it whistle past his jaw. The man it hits is a little less lucky. He chokes back a yelp as it pierces his arm, and drops his sword. The other bandits step back, nervous. _ Yeah _ , thinks Claude. _ You aren’t the only ones who brought friends. _

“You’re getting sloppy!” Leonie calls, her bow gleaming in the torch light. Behind her, Hilda waves her axe.

He feels breathless in a way that’s only a little to do with the near-brush with death. He raises Failnaught in reply, and Mira, scenting the air, bellows out a challenge to Hilda’s wyvern. The bandits look rattled. Teach, in the centre of it all, looks perfectly calm, white magic crackling around them. They shine.

There’s a crash from the other end of the field - it sounds like thunder - and Lorenz shouts. The bandits are losing their formation, shuffling back from the clearly professionally trained and armed group. He should feel elated. He should press the advantage. He feels sick, somehow, his stomach turning. 

Another whistle, another arrow. Leonie sticks a bandit in the leg, and he drops the sack he was holding. Hilda follows behind and cracks his friend on the head with the blunt edge of her axe. "Oops!" she says. "Guess you shouldn't steal from a place of worship!"

For a moment, Claude feels like he can see the battlefield like Teach can. They're going to run, he realises, unwilling to risk their lives for whatever they found - a handful of sacramental cloths, maybe, or a bottle of once-blessed water. Five years have passed. The bones of the monastery would have been picked clean by now. It would be easy to chase, to make an example of them. Just as Rhea would have done.

The bandit on the ground clutches his stricken leg. He looks up at Claude, and their eyes meet for just a moment. Claude is taken back to that very first mission in Zanado. It had turned his stomach then. When did killing cease to bother him? Yes, he’d spent the last five years in more meetings than he had skirmishes, but it wasn’t as though he’d renounced a martial life. But he's not a hardened killer. He always had a choice. He still does. The man takes his moment of hesitation to start scrambling away, his eyes wild. His leg is bleeding, badly. He sees Leonie nock another arrow in the corner of his eye.

"Wait!" he calls, raising Failnaught again and hoping the sickly red glow is enough to get their attention. "Let them go! Don't kill anyone, alright?"

Leonie’s arrow doesn’t waver.

Four, no, nearly five years ago, Lady Rhea had said _ jump _ and he’d said _ of course your Ladyship, how high, actually, let me kill this man first _. It’s a new dawn. He had just told Teach that. It’s a new chance for all of Fódlan. Is he really going to make the same mistakes?

“They’re thieves,” Leonie says flatly.

“That doesn’t mean they should die.”

"And if they're trying to kill us?" Hilda yells, retrieving a javelin from her saddle. From how carefully she’s watching the passage north, there's an archer somewhere in the bushes. If he can pierce her wyvern's wing she won't be able to give chase. But if he moves, she'll throw.

"Be better than them! It's that easy!"

There’s little left of the man with the wounded leg by now. Just an abandoned sack, and a trail of blood spots Claude really doesn’t have the heart to follow.

Leonie rolls her eyes, but she drops the arrow and swings off her pegasus. “I’ll hold you personally responsible when this all goes wrong,” she says, and hands him a bundle of arrows. They're a little shorter than what Failnaught is built for, and he’ll have to watch his draw. The fletching is - strange, even for Leonie’s recycled arrows. "Have you even asked the professor about this?”

The professor-

-is patching up Lorenz, who seemed to have collided with a swordmaster, judging by the blood on his mare. They look up, white magic still crackling over the wounds. "We won't kill. It’s the only way. It's time for Fódlan to change."

Hilda's archer appears, arrow pulled taut - but it's Ignatz. She pauses her wind-up and nearly fumbles the javelin and drops it, as shocked by him as he is by her. Another man gives up trying to retrieve his sword and takes the chance to run, scrambling towards the centre of the ruin.

“Claude-” Ignatz gasps. “The north east, there’s a problem-” He hears a sickening scream and before Ignatz can finish, he’s kicking Mira into wing. She’s a dream to fly, as always, and the strong muscles bunch and pull as she eats away the distance. He squints, the dusk gathering. The tall fortifications around the centre - where their leader must be, based on where the others had run - are lit by torchlight, but the walls behind them are shorter, and he's not completely unaware that anyone appearing above them would make a very nice target indeed. 

Violet light pours out of an alley, one of the many surrounding the fort on the hill. It makes sinister fingers through the arrow slits and parapets. His heart catches in his throat. Mira can’t fly faster.

“-orry! I’m so sorry, I truly am-” The voice carries, high and fluting. He knows it, he thinks. But who?

“You idiot!” That’s Lysithea, at least, and he would like to say that if she’s scolding she must be reasonably safe, but he knows her a little better than that. If Lysithea was ever caught in a bear trap, she would have some sharp words for it. “I could’ve killed you!”

He’s close enough to see Raphael, heavy armour shining in the torchlight. “Naw,” he says, loud as ever. “Think she’d be just fine. Me, though?”

“You could’ve got Raphael killed!”

“Whoah, whoah! No one is killing anyone!”

They turn, startled. Claude just about manages to dodge Lysithea’s reflexive bolt of dark magic. Kind of. Functionally, she didn’t hit him. It's really only his pride that took a blow. He smoothes the burnt locks down, and tries to ignore the acrid smell.

She, on the other hand, looks like she might cry.

“Claude?” gasps Lysithea. He looks over his shoulder, mouths _ me? _ Dark energy crackles around Lysithea’s fist once more and he thinks better of it. He pulls Mira short, and she lands.

“Yes, yes, hello, hello. Lovely to see you, what a short five years. What’s this about killing Raphael?”

Her hair shines eerily in the light as Lysithea bows her head. "I didn't mean to-"

"It's my fault," Marianne says, softly. She's dismounted, and Cethie is a ghostly imprint behind her, her wings folded in tight. "I didn't realise how it must have looked. Lysithea, I'm very sorry." 

"See?" says Raphael, clanking up to draw them both into an embrace. "No one got hurt, so we're fine. And no one is going to get hurt, because we're all going to stay here, where that archer can't see us, and that's _ fine! _ It's all sorted!"

The alley is narrow, and boxed in by a thick wooden door to the west. They must have come from the east side, then, if the smashed barricades are any indication. The walls aren't so tall that Marianne could hover comfortably, and anything that jutted out, silhouetted against the torchlight and the sunset would be hard to miss. Like a pegasus wing. Or an unarmoured head. Or hair that gleamed like silver even under the indigo veil. And if an archer had followed them-

The light is fading fast. If their roles were reversed, and Claude was hunting them, he could make the shot. He knows it. The question is whether the other archer could. He jumps off Mira before he's even made his decision, swinging Failnaught up and over his shoulder, and hands her reins to a puzzled Marianne. Mira, treacherous beast, _ immediately _ nuzzles into her, which makes Cethie shuffle back and snort. 

Claude puts a finger over his lips, and sneaks towards the eastern passage. Someone might notice, at some point, that Claude was capable of moving without making a single sound. He keeps his weight low, hunched into the shadows. There’s a good chance this other guy will see him first, but it never hurts to be prepared. He finds one of Leonie’s arrows and notches it. Failnaught judders and pulses, but the dim light fades as he turns the corner. 

Beyond the wall, the bushes are all in shadow. Against it, so is he. He breathes, carefully, trying to steady his heart. One, two, and he’ll strike. On two. He’ll handle the threat. He has a plan.

One, breathe. Two, breathe. One, two, _ clank! _

He jolts. The other man startles. The arrow goes wide, missing Claude with a sharp _ ping _. “Whoah!” says Raphael. “You could’ve hurt me!”

The archer sags in disbelief, and Claude regains his wits just enough to loose the arrow. It’s as he was expecting, a little shorter than he’s used to, but he can adjust. Leonie’s arrow whistles oddly as it flies. It’s the same whistle that saved his life just a few minutes ago, and he begins to see a _ why _ , and a _ how _, and the steps fall into place in a moment of brilliant electric clarity. The man in the bushes grunts, and coughs, a thick, wet sound. 

"Raph," he says, carefully keeping his voice even as he sees how it should unfold. "Can you get Lysithea? Quickly, please." She won't be pleased to heal a bandit, but he's loathe to leave this man to die. 

Raphael understands quickly, and jogs off. If Claude put a sword inside a breastplate and dragged them behind him on horseback it would probably make less noise. Thankfully, there's no way Lysithea could mistake _ him _ for a ghost. 

He drops to his knees, and tries to focus on a plan. Their leader is in the centre, heavily fortified. That much is clear. And they're thieves, unquestionably, but not practiced bandits. They hold their swords like butterknives. So, opportunists. But they must know Garreg Mach to have made it this far unscathed Not monks - they don't have the unworldly mien of the faithful. Not pilgrims. And they're not students. So that leaves…

Lysithea pinches his ear. 

"Hey- ow, ow! Hey!"

“I’m not wasting my magic,” she snaps. “He would’ve killed us if he could.”

He would have. But he didn’t. “That’s fine,” Claude says. “Please?”

“No,” says Lysithea, folding her arms.

Claude sighs. “And I respect your decision. But he’s dying, right now. And it’ll be slow. And it’ll hurt. So if you don’t want to heal him, you don’t have to. But all I ask is that you make it quick. You don’t have to save him. Just kill him yourself.”

“That’s not-”

“But you said he was trying to kill us. What makes this different, Lysithea?”

He’s not looking at her, but he can tell she’s furious. It radiates off her in waves. She’s a little taller, sure, but she hasn’t changed so much he can’t get under her skin like this. He hopes she forgives him later.

“I hate you, sometimes” she says, bluntly, dropping to her knees and pulling out a vulnerary. “Ask Marianne to bring a torch over so I can see.”

“Lys, thank you, I-”

“Don’t thank me. He can thank me. Just… go, and finish whatever you’re doing.”

He’s already thinking about logistics, about the passage he saw on the flight that leads directly to the central chamber, and the lack of guards on the doorway to the east. Marianne hands him Mira’s reins, and he’s swinging a leg over when Lysithea calls out to him. It’s near dark, now. They really don’t have much time.

“Claude,” she says, haloed in the light of her healings, Marianne holding pressure to the wound. “I just- I hope this is worth it.”

He doesn’t look back again. “I hope so too.”

* * *

He unlocks the door in passing, and sends Raphael towards the central fortification. For this to work, they need to see him coming. Then it’s back to Hilda and Leonie, to tell them their roles. Leonie gives him a sideways glance, but she doesn't argue. It would help to have Teach - it’s always helpful to have Teach - but they seemed preoccupied, and it wouldn’t hurt to have them appear at a crucial moment later.

Then it’s to wing, again, and hopefully for the last time. Mira grunts at him when he applies a little pressure with his legs. _ Yeah _ , he thinks, _ I’m tired too. _ He won’t fly her back to the monastery once they’re done.

He dismounts just out of the fort’s sight, and she tucks herself into a corner and melts into the shadows. Raphael jerks his hand towards the gateway, gesturing, _ now? _ Claude shakes his head, lips pursed. Wait for Leonie’s signal.

_ Fwee! _ It’s quiet, but he can’t miss it now he knows what to expect. “Go!” he hisses, and Raphael charges into the centre like a heavily armoured bull. There are shouts, yelps of pain, and Leonie’s arrows whistling. After what seems like an eternity, it’s quiet. He starts to creep towards them. 

“W-wait! I’m not the one you want!” Bingo.

He stands up, and forces himself to be measured, and slow, not to jog with relief. “Hold on, now!” He calls, affecting richer, deeper tones. Think of Lorenz. Think about how Lorenz would handle this. “Are you saying there’s been a mistake, my good man?”

Their commander - it must be him, because everyone else is groaning quietly on the ground - is cowering under Raphael’s gaze. Leonie, to the side, has an arrow notched and pointed at his head. Hilda lands behind him, and readies her axe. He sees Claude, and his eyes narrow. He looks like he’s doing a lot of mental sums.

The previous Duke Riegan had, in many ways, made life difficult for his successor. He’d maintained order not by loyalty, nor by fear, but by complex webs of debt and credit that mysteriously disappeared following his death, and a general understanding that things would continue as they were because they always had. Claude didn’t resent him for it - no, the ways he treated his servants was more than enough - but honest, practical advice and mentorship had been hard to come by. The previous Duke had regarded the naming and cultivating of an heir as a necessary evil, a grim reminder that one day he too would die, and the sad passing of his son - Claude’s uncle, though they had never formally been acquainted - had done little to lighten his opinions. But he’d said one thing, once, bedridden and gaunt, that had stuck with him.

_“You aren’t going to wear that, are you?” Claude’s suit was a little informal, sure, but he thought it was rather dashing._ _“Don’t forget you’ll be dealing with merchants, boy. The Alliance is a federation of merchants. Those miserable penny-pinching wretches will run rings around you like that.”_

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “You should always dress like you have money. That’s all they care about, so that’s all they see. Once a merchant is thinking about how much money you have, he’s not thinking about anything else you can offer him. That’s how you get the upper hand.” _

He’d gone to the markets in Derdriu that afternoon and found a remarkable woollen cloth seemingly spun with gold. The trader had tried to convince him it came from a Faerghan sheep that naturally grew golden fleece, and he’d been so impressed with the depths of her fiction he almost hadn’t challenged it. The price, though, was enough for him to point out that Faerghus had exported almost no wool for the last three years, and certainly none of such an unusual hue. He also told her that he could smell the onionskins and indigo used in the cloth’s production. Nonetheless, he’d put her name forward when Count Gloucester started banging on about the production of a new tapestry for the guildhall.

It had taken nearly a month for his design to be cut and stitched together, with a thin layer of lacquered wood sewn into the coat, and double thickness quilting on the trousers and sleeves. It had been worth it, though, to see his grandfather’s face when he’d first worn it. It was going to be worth it all again now.

“My lord,” the bandit leader says, “truly, it is the great fortune of the Goddess that you have come! There seems to be a misunderstanding between myself and these - ruffians-”

“No, indeed,” Claude interjects, “I can see there’s no need for hostility. Stand down, men.” Leonie rolls her eyes at that, but luckily, the bandit’s gaze is fixed on Claude. “May I have the honour of asking your name, my good sir?”

“I am but a humble merchant, my lord, and you may call me Pallardó. How may I have the honour of addressing you?”

In for a penny, in for a bullion. “I am of noble house Gloucester. No, please, there is no need to bow. It is my great shame that my men have inconvenienced you in this way.” Leonie makes an obscene gesture but he keeps a straight face.

“Think nothing of it, my lord. I’m sure we can forget this ever happened. Might I trouble you for a word in private?”

“But of course!” Claude says, waving a hand with arrogant ease to dismiss his retainers. Pallardó steps towards him. He’s expecting the knife, but Pallardó is quicker than he thought. Or Claude is slower. He gets his hand around Pallardó’s wrist, just, but the man throws his weight into it. They fall to the floor, still struggling. Claude’s left arm is caught awkwardly under him, his right occupied with holding back Pallardó’s now two-handed thrust. If he wriggles-

“This isn’t personal,” Pallardó grunts. “But Count Gloucester will pay a pretty ransom for you.”

“No offence,” Claude retorts, feeling the fabric of his sleeve scrape and mercifully _ give _. “But he would only pay you to keep me.”

He brings his other hand up and breaks Pallardó’s grip. The man barely has a moment to be surprised before Claude is wrenching them over, pulling one arm up and behind his back. He feels the man’s shoulder twist and strain, and leans his knee onto Pallardó for good measure. The knife is forgotten on the floor. Claude kicks it out of his reach almost as an afterthought.

Pallardó is prostate on the ground, folded over at his knees, and if it weren’t for Claude’s hold on his arm, and his weight pressing him down, it might have looked like he’d come to Garreg Mach to pray.

“I’m afraid I lied, earlier,” Claude says. Pallardó is slippery in his grip, twisting and jerking with little grunts. “I’m not of House Gloucester. I’m Duke Riegan. Head of the Leicester Alliance. You might have heard of me.”

Pallardó grunts in reply. Or maybe in pain. This would be a lot easier on him if he stopped moving.

“Now, thieving from the monastery… Lady Rhea would have considered that a crime worthy of death.”

Pallardó writhes. “Lady Rhea isn’t here!”

“She isn’t,” Claude agrees. “But the new Archbishop is. And they were hand-picked by Lady Rhea herself. How do you feel about giving yourself to their mercy?” Pallardó is silent. He’s not stupid. “So I think we can agree there has been a misunderstanding here. You and your men, you’re not thieves, are you? You’re traders. Those goods, from the Church - you were protecting them, awaiting a signed and orderly bill of sale. Isn’t that right?” He moves his knee higher, pressing Pallardó double.

“Yes-” Pallardó wheezes. “Absolutely- we came to trade-”

"But that brings me to another problem. You see," Claude says, as conversational as he can sound while twisting a man's arm behind his back, "not just anyone gets to trade here. The Knights of Seiros are very clear about what kind of person is suitable for representing the Church in business. There's really only one trader they trust. I don't know if you've heard of her-"

Pallardó's face goes pale. "No!"

"-but prices aren't the only thing she'll cut. And I hear she takes it very, very personally, when other people think they can just step in and operate here without her licence…" He leans, putting weight on Pallardó and pressure on his shoulder. He groans. "But do you know what? Today might just be your lucky day!"

Pallardó isn't stupid. He stops trying to fight Claude's grip. "Why… might that be?"

"Because, my friend-" and he twists just a fraction more, to remind Pallardó who really needs a friend here. "I've got it on good authority that the Church is back in business. The Knights will be returning, and they'll be looking for new suppliers. Of course, I shouldn't have to tell you that the Church requires a certain amount of _ discretion _ and _ proven loyalty _. We do live in such trying times."

Pallardó sags, helplessly. "I might know-"

"-Some merchants? Some who've been struggling, during the war? Some fine upstanding gentlemen who would be willing to exclusively serve the Church? Someone pious and repentant, ready to change? Would you happen to know someone like that, my friend?"

He nods obediently. His face is white and etched with lines of pain. Claude almost feels bad, but he doesn’t need to be the good guy here.

“Excellent! I’m going to let you go, now, but before I do, I want you to know that my friends are standing right behind you. My big friend, in armour, with the axe? He’s a sweetheart. He doesn’t want to hurt you. But my friend with the bow isn’t half as nice. And before you think about trying something really stupid, my friend on the wyvern is watching from the air.” He eases off the pressure, and steps back. Pallardó doesn’t immediately get up.

“Oh, one more thing,” Claude says, as though it’s a complete afterthought. “Your men are all alive, if not well. But we’ve made it clear that should any more vicious, cruel, blasphemous bandits show their heads around these parts, we can’t guarantee that the Church will have mercy again. And night’s falling. Very hard to pick out our merchant friends in the dark. Be careful out there.”

Mira comes at his whistle, and he takes off. Hilda takes wing behind him, and the wyverns fly silently in the dark.

* * *

Teach has set up a camp inside the monastery and is talking to the Knights. Or, rather, the Knights have set up a camp, and Alois is talking at the professor, who is staring rather mournfully at the stewpot. He’s tired from the battle, the confrontation with Pallardó, and then stabling the wyverns because Hilda mysteriously vanished, so Claude decides to leave them to it, and heads towards what once was the Golden Deer.

In the firelight he can see them clearly. They look _ well _, and he feels like his five years of hard-won neutrality might have been worth it after all. Marianne looks more at peace than he’s ever seen her before. Hilda is glued to her side, no doubt sharing some story that didn’t quite make it into her last letter. Raphael is cooking a brace of sausages on the fire, watched carefully by Lorenz. Ignatz is off to one side, sketching with a piece of charcoal from his bag. Leonie and Lysithea are having a very animated conversation, and for a moment, he’s loathe to interrupt. It feels so long since they were all together and all at peace.

Hilda looks up. “Claude-” she gasps, and they erupt as one, rushing towards him.

“-couldn’t believe it-”

“-_ knew _ you’d be there-”

“-professor’s alive-”

“-and what _ was _ that-”

“Whoah!” he says, “a little space-” and Raphael draws him in for a rib-shattering hug.

“I’m so happy we all get to see each other again!”

“Easy, Raph, you’ll crush him. Whoah!” He sweeps Hilda up too, and then Lorenz, and Marianne, who scrambles out of the crush up to his shoulder, and _ laughs _.

“Aw, heck,” says Leonie, and grabs Raphael from behind.

“Yeah! Iggy, c’mon-” and Ignatz joins them, throwing his arms around whoever he can reach. It’s hot, and far too squashed, but Claude feels free and happy in a way he hasn’t felt for years.

Lysithea watches them warily. “You too,” Claude says, and that’s enough for her to leap onto the pile, grabbing at the backs of Leonie and Ignatz’s coats. Raphael, in the centre of it, laughs, and Claude can’t help but laugh too, until he’s breathless, and shaking, and Raphael’s arms start trembling and his knees buckle, bringing them all down. Claude collapses on the grass, hiccuping. They kept their promise. After five years, they’re all reunited. They’re his golden deer.

That’s how Teach finds them, later, all seated around the fire, sharing stories of the five years since their informal graduation. The fire has burned down to nearly embers, and Lysithea looks half asleep despite having taken Marianne’s perch on Raphael’s shoulder. The sausages are gone, and Hilda has put a pot of fresh snow over the fire, ready for someone else to make tea. 

“Good work today, Claude.” He’s startled, but pleased to be singled out for the praise.

“Teach, you don’t have to flatter me. Everyone contributed to this one.”

“Of course,” the professor says, their eyes shining with something unreadable. “But your idea. That was your good work.”

Leonie pushes herself up to sit. Her face is flushed from the warmth and laughter. “Professor, is this really going to be how we do things?”

“This is the only way forwards.”

"I'm not saying that didn't work," Leonie says, and even she's fighting to keep the smile off her face. "Just that it won't work twice. Not everyone we fight is going to be a, a mediocre bandit leader-”

“Who thought Claude was Lorenz!” Hilda gasps, bursting into laughter again.

“Hey, I tried to tell him Count Gloucester wouldn’t ever pay to have me back!”

“- I mean. Do we really think Edelgard will give up that easily?”

Hilda stops laughing. “No,” says the professor, carefully. “I don’t think she will. I don’t think any of it will be easy. But it’s the right thing to do.”

“Teach, the Alliance has been neutral these last few years. Why should we join the war? For the Church? For Rhea?” He winds one of the tassels on his sash around his fingers, an old nervous habit he thought he’d outgrown. “Sure, there’s a lot of questions I want to ask her, but I can’t ask anyone to risk their lives for it.”

“No one will die.” Teach sounds so sure of it that Claude wants to believe them, he really does.

He stretches out, puts his hands behind his head, away from the sash, where they’re safer. “I want to believe it, but… That would take a miracle.”

Teach almost smiles. “Then that’s what I’ll give you.” Claude doesn’t believe in miracles. But - that strange power, the Sword of the Creator, the way their hair and eyes glow, and now, coming back from the dead after five whole years - if anyone can make a miracle happen, it’s Teach.

“Ok! Listen up, my golden deer!” Lysithea blinks awake. Ignatz shuffles closer. Marianne stops trying to pour Hilda’s tea. “Teach here has set us a challenge. We’re to end this war without taking another life. I know, I know. It sounds impossible. It’ll take a miracle. But look around. Isn’t the fact that we’re here, now, proof that miracles can happen? I know I’m asking a lot. You don’t have to stay. But I also know you can do it. And there’s no one else who could. What do you say?” He holds out his hand.

They’re silent.

“Aw, hell. I never did like killing people. If I can build a world for Maya where folks aren’t hurting each other like this… I’m in.” Raphael’s hand, large, warm, and calloused from all his training, closes around Claude’s.

“For Maya,” Ignatz agrees, adding his.

“I… never wanted to use my magic for this. If you think we can do it, then we will.” Lysithea adds hers.

Lorenz doesn’t hesitate. “My father will hate this,'' he admits. “But we must forge a better path.”

Leonie sticks her arm in, but holds her hand back. “Someone has to be realistic here. People are always going to fight each other, and we’re never going to live in a world without conflict. But… I don’t want to die because I was born in Alliance territory, in some stupid noble’s fight that doesn’t concern me, and I’m sure there are people in the Empire who feel the same. So I’m in. I think.”

Marianne grips Leonie’s hand. “The Goddess is watching over us. I believe we can succeed.”

Claude turns to look at Hilda. She folds her arms. “I’m not just going to say _ ‘Yes, of course, this is amazing’ _ just because the rest of you are! This is crazy! Everyone we’re fighting against is going to have weapons, real weapons, and they aren’t going to care that you’ve all taken this stupid vow! I get that none of us want to die, but…!” She sighs. “Fine. It’s crazy, you’re crazy, but maybe I’m crazy too.” She sticks her hand in, covering Marianne’s, and flushes deeply. “I’m in.”

“This will be hard,” Teach warns. “I know we’re all making this promise, but-”

“We kept our last promise. We’ll keep this one too. And hey, maybe we can all meet up again in five more years, and maybe we’ll talk about how stupid we were, and maybe we won’t. But Teach, I want to try. I feel ready to _ try _.”

Seven pairs of eyes meet his as he glances around the circle. “Golden deer on three?” Hilda suggests.

“One, two-”

“Golden deer!”

“-Three!”

“For the golden deer!!”

“Terrible!” Claude says, unable to hold back a laugh. “Absolutely terrible! Ok, one more try. This time, on _ three. _One-”

“Golden deer!”

As they laugh, Claude feels the enormity of what he’s agreed to do. To spare everyone - to save everyone - will take a tactical mind beyond compare. He can be shrewd, sure, and cunning - he’s very good at cunning - but compassion? And mercy? It’s crushing. Hilda laughs. He briefly hears Marianne’s voice, soft and sweet. Then Lorenz, proud and bombastic. Raphael’s baritone laughter, Ignatz’s kind tenor, Lysithea and Leonie joining the chorus. And Teach.

He’s not alone. He has friends, these wonderful friends, who are so skilled and brave and kind. He’s not carrying this burden by himself. Even if he doesn’t have the compassion, or the patience - they will. They can do it, because they’re doing it together.

A plan starts to spark. Ideas come together like cogs in a machine, and the road he needs to walk is narrow, and treacherous, but he can see it now, and he knows which steps to take.

“So, Teach,” he asks, as his friends wipe tears of laughter from their eyes. “What exactly have you agreed with the Knights of Seiros?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Turns out the juice that makes you write lots is Claude, Claude, and more Claude. Golden Deer best house \m/
> 
> Next chapter: The Traitor


	2. The Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an unexpected visitor to Garreg Mach, and Claude has definitely not had enough sleep.

**Guardian Moon, 1185**

Garreg Mach is gloomy, foreboding in a way Claude hadn't really anticipated when he'd said things like "let's use it as our base of operations" and "let's work with the church". The monks and nuns are few and far between, with those who have returned looking tired and dull. It's also midwinter. This leaves him and his - classmates? former classmates? brothers in arms in the glorious resistance? - to do the boring and necessary work of everyday maintenance. Teach tries to divide it fairly and to each person's interests, with Leonie hunting, Marianne in charge of the stables and Raphael moving rubble, and it's a _bit_ like training, but also not. It's too cold, for one. And it's a little bit soul-crushing. It's work. 

He feels lost, somehow. They made their promise - their grand, world-changing promise - and then things had just carried on. He'd been ready to march to Edelgard's door and demand her surrender, but instead he was stuck doing endless accounting and whichever chores needed another pair of hands. It sucks. Hilda mentions this when they pass on the early morning sky patrol.

"So I don't know if you've noticed," she shouts, bundled up in scarves and furs for the Guardian moon winds, "but this sucks!"

There's frost gathering on the tips of his gauntlets. "What makes you say that?" He repositions his grip on the reins, and tries not to wince as the ice shatters and dusts his poor wyvern with a fresh sprinkling of cold. She shivers in displeasure and nearly throws him. He grabs the pommel of his saddle - just - and catches Hilda watching carefully. He probably can't play that off as intentional.

"Fuck this," Hilda calls, pulling a few scarves away from her face to help her voice carry. "It's so fucking cold. How is your wyvern still breathing?"

Mira's always been tougher than most, but she doesn't have the thick winter coats of the pegasi. There are icicles forming around her nose and she grunts on the deep inhales. He tries to make himself think like a leader, and make a decision.

"What's your suggestion?" he asks.

Hilda's pegasus, shy about approaching a predator - even if that particular predator is about ten minutes away from being a lizard shaped icicle - begrudgingly flaps closer. He can see her far more clearly. Her eyebrows are furrowed, her hair is a mess, and her nose is chapped pink from the wind. She's never looked cuter, but it's probably not the right time to point that out.

"You need to stop, for one. Mira's not happy, you're not happy, and there's no way you can get on a pegasus so _stop. _I'll talk to the professor and get Marianne on the rota from tomorrow."

"Don't we need Marianne in the stables? I'm not going to force her to do a double shift." 

She rolls her eyes. "Then get Leonie to cover, or Lorenz, or something. You're the boss, you sort it out! All I'm saying is if Mira crashes and you die I'm not fighting this stupid war in your stead."

"Come on, you would."

"I won't! I'll make the professor disband the church. I'll deliver our surrender to Edelgard myself. Hell, I'm going to nominate Lorenz as the next leader of the Alliance!"

"Whoah," says Claude, faking shock. "Now_ that_ is way too far."

"Then don't die here because your mount froze. You go land and warm up, and I'll finish the sweep myself." It's not the worst idea she's ever had. But if he gives in _too_ easily- well. Don't they both enjoy the chase? "Go!" she shouts at him. "Flames! It's not like anything ever happens on sky watch!"

He wants to protest, and stand his ground, but his teeth choose that moment to start chattering. Hilda looks victorious. "Fine. But don't stay up here too long. Once more around the cathedral, and then I command you take at least an hour's break. And tea!"

She salutes, lazily. "Heard you loud and clear, leader man."

Claude starts moving with Mira, leaning into the turn as she shifts angle and banks. He didn't want to admit it, but she's definitely tiring, worn out from the effort of staying aloft in such extreme temperatures. Even if he'd gone for that final sweep, there's no guarantee she'd be fit for the next patrol. Or the next. And it's been five years since the stables were well stocked, and they're in the middle of a war, and properly trained pegasi and wyvern aren't exactly the easiest or cheapest things to purchase, even during peacetime... He'd fallen asleep on the ledger last night. He'd dreamed about grain prices.

He's thinking about supplies, and costs, and whether he could get away with raising a tariff to fund the resistance (almost certainly not, and he'd be giving Count Gloucester a reason to fight him) or if he should rely on established relationships within the Alliance for credit when Mira stops. Abruptly. His brain catches up in a rush as he realises she did that because Hilda _screamed_. 

So much for nothing happening on sky watch.

* * *

He doesn't dismount so much as fall off Mira, but only Marianne is around to see it, and she's preoccupied in assessing whether or not she can see any early warning signs for frostbite. Not on him, mind, but Mira leans into the attention, shuffling her wings and sighing dramatically even though the stables are heated through the underground vents. It's probably for the best, really, because he's not sure he'd handle Marianne gently holding his hands right now. He decides to blame the grain prices. It was a very intense dream about grain prices.

"How bad does it look?"

She turns to him, and smiles softly, like the morning sun. She's just as dazzling. "I think you landed just in time. Mira is complaining, but you have a strong bond." She catches herself, and flushes. "And, um, the attack! It's, ah. Maybe it's not? But I think you should be there."

"Walk with me," he says, and holds an arm out for her anyway, not just to see her flush again. The sun's beginning to thaw last night's snowfall, and she uses her free hand to lift her skirts above the worst of it. It's charming. Lorenz is clearly rubbing off on him. "Did you say Hilda had an estimate of their numbers?"

"Well, she wasn't sure, but we got a better look once she raised the alarm, and it's... Um. It looks like one person?"

That's a little unusual, even for the Emperor. "And you're sure it's from the Empire?"

"He was flying a strange flag, I think. Not _her_ one. But I don't know what it was. I'm sorry, I can't help much." Marianne, who had been in the stables, had been the first to respond, her pegasus rocketing to Hilda's call, skirts rucked up as she sat side saddle, and not only had she confirmed the sight, she'd then landed to see Mira in safely. Her bravery was astonishing. 

"You've done plenty," he murmured, and squeezed her arm, all of which was worth it to see her colour once again. If Hilda heard about this she might kill him. When Hilda heard-. Well. He hopes Lorenz remembered to put a few flowers on his grave.

"A-anyway, Seteth said to leave it to the Professor, and they said to let him in and hear him out. I think in the Reception Hall?" How curious, then, that they're almost there, even though he was leading her, and Seteth is frowning, arms crossed on his chest. Marianne drops his arm. Claude feels a little silly to still be scared of being lectured for impropriety, but Seteth can be an intimidating guy.

"Claude," he says. "I must have you know this is most irregular. Surely we could have sent an envoy out to greet him? Was it truly necessary to let him in through the gates? We know nothing of his reasons for approaching Garreg Mach. He could be a spy, or a double agent, or a traitor-"

"Ah," says their guest, as though he is welcome in this conversation, and isn't interrupting at all, "you misunderstand me. You see, I am Ferdinand von Aegir." He bows politely, and then steps back. Seteth, who might find his frown becoming permanent, moves to block the doorway. Ferdinand moves back as though he expected that, and seats himself on a mildewing chair, just as he would in any noble House's waiting room. He's grown his hair out into ridiculous amber waves, or, possibly, forgotten to get it cut for five years. He's also filled out his riding jacket and breeches, although Claude is trying not to focus on that right now. He's opulent, flashy as always, which would never be a good look on a spy. But he looks surprisingly well for a traitor. He's removed his fawn riding gloves and all of his fingers are intact. Claude wouldn't expect her Imperial Majesty to be known for her mercy in these matters.

Claude could feel a headache growing. His ears itch uncomfortably, a sign he'd moved from the freezing grounds to the warmth of the reception hall too quickly. He wants - tea, and then sleep, and then tea again, and then summer. He didn't want to deal with Ferdinand. Marianne, hovering by the door to the dining hall, gently touches his arm. "I can tell him to leave,'' she whispers, and he loves her more than he ever thought possible. 

"No," he says, and offers her a smile that's probably a little more genuine than he'd prefer. "I'll go have a word with him. But, ah, could you go find Lorenz? And ask him to pop down? I think he's doing inventories up in the offices." She squeezes his arm, so gently he barely feels it, and disappears in a swirl of blue.

He tries to compose himself, and nods to Seteth to indicate he has it all under control. If he can convince himself, he can convince anyone.

Ferdinand looks up as he approaches, the absurdly long hair rippling like a field of autumn grain, and Claude's mouth suddenly goes dry. He's not prepared at all for Ferdinand to bolt upright, and sink into the deepest bow he's ever seen.

"Honourable Duke Riegan! Word of your triumphant victory is beginning to spread, particularly among those such as I disillusioned with the Empire! I come to seek mercy, and if it pleases you, I, Ferdinand von Aegir, hereby pledge myself to your cause!"

He must be out of breath, but doesn't stand up from the bow. "I- Thank you? Please stand."

Ferdinand jerks upright with violence. His eyes are bright and he looks a little flushed, although no more so than would be expected from delivering a speech while bent at the waist like that. "I am sure you have many questions," and Claude's head throbbed, "and I would be pleased to answer them to the best of my ability. For you see, I have had a long ride with which to consider them! And I am of the surest conviction that swearing myself to your cause is the only suitable course of action! Please! Ask away!"

The monks and nuns are beginning to gather. "Perhaps we could have this conversation somewhere a little more private?" Claude suggests.

"Indeed," Seteth cuts in, "there are many holding cells which may be more appropriate, at least until we can ascertain for ourselves the veracity of these claims."

"That won't be necessary," Lorenz announces, sweeping in with a confidence that belies the fact that Claude knows, for certain, he would have had to sprint down the stairs to get here so quickly. "Duke Riegan, if you will allow it, I will take over from here."

He passes Claude imperiously, and Claude absolutely has to learn how to walk like that, like it's beyond any question that he belongs here. "I found drool on the ledgers this morning" Lorenz says, low enough for just Claude to hear. "If I have to drag you to bed myself tonight, I will."

"Tease. Did it do any damage?"

"Nothing a silk handkerchief couldn't fix." Lorenz' eyes flick over him with good humour, and Claude suddenly feels all too aware of his dirty flying gear and messy hair. He must look terrible. He's exhausted. Just once, Lorenz is right and he should absolutely let him handle it. There's something else that's bothering him, though, something he knows he can't remember right now, and it's prickling the inside of his mind like a thorn through a glove. It might come back after sleep. "Go. Get some rest. I'm sure I can keep Ferdinand entertained until mid afternoon."

A piece of string could probably keep Ferdinand entertained for that long, but Claude is grateful nonetheless. "Thanks," he whispers. "Join me for tea when I wake up?"

"But of course. And I'll pour." And Lorenz is gone, striding towards their visitor. 

"Ferdinand!" he hears, as he makes a hasty exit. "My word, you look divine-"

"Oh not at all, Lorenz, in fact I pale compared to you! What an elegant figure you cut, I simply must have the name of your tailor-"

Seteth raises an eyebrow as he tries to sneak past. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"Of course I do," Claude lies. "That's why I'd like you to work with Lorenz on this one. I trust you to be... unencumbered by personal feelings." Seteth doesn't quite puff his chest out with pride but Claude knows it is close. He nods, sharply, says, "understood", and then Claude is _free_, and he bolts to the safety of his bedroom before anyone else finds something for him to have an opinion on.

* * *

Claude doesn't dream about grain prices, at least. Instead, he's watching a burning tower, and a horseman galloping away from it. His thighs are like steel in stark white breeches, and the wind and sparks blow his long hair - itself all the colours of autumn leaves - in every direction, obscuring his face, leaving Claude unsure where the fire ends and the man begins. The man reaches towards him, and he can't help but lift a hand to meet him, to touch him, to-

He wakes with a start, suddenly too hot under his quilts and sheets. Hilda leans back, blinking. His nose stings.

For a moment he sees Hilda as she is - curious, in that selfishly childish way - before it slips, and her familiar mask of easy smiles and ready praise falls back into place. "Thank the goddess! Lorenz was getting worried. I thought I was going to have to do something terrible to wake you up. For all the noise you were making you sure slept deeply."

He rubs his nose. She must have flicked it. "Noise? What noise?" He knows he's a silent sleeper. His life has depended on it.

"Hmm, how to describe it." She props one hand under her chin, mimicking Teach's famous thinking pose. "It was very interesting~ Something like, ah, ah, oh _Professugh_-". He hits her with a pillow. She's cut off mid-word, mouth full of silk and feathers. Luckily for her, he remembers at the very last moment to grab one without some of his more illicit reading material hidden inside. She topples backwards anyway, making it into one long theatrical swoon. 

Claude presses himself up on his hand to loom over her. He's still warm from sleep, and his body feels slow even with reflexes he'd had to hone in childhood. "Sorry?" he asks, keeping his tone conversational, and his eyes fixed on the one spot on her forehead that isn't flushing a heady pink. "What was that you were saying?"

The pause drags on a beat too long. She keeps silent, refusing to meet his eyes. It's not that he's angry. He'd trained himself to sleep silently in childhood, after all. But that's fine, he can play this game with her.

He keeps his voice light. "Hilda, are you accusing your sworn leader of impropriety?" They've played this one before, batting and deflecting, tiptoeing around any suggestion that there might be something more between him and a rotating selection of his allies. Hilda's prone to flights of whimsy in this regard, imagining him some grand romances with anyone he shares half a glance with. Whatever she accuses him of, he denies, and they amicably pass it back and forth like a ripe Faerghan cheese. He enjoys it. It's why talking to her is so easy.

Her eyes sharpen, with something almost like anger. "You know, when it's just us together, I don't expect you to keep up the act." She sighs. "Ugh, sorry. I guess I'm just not in the mood." She pushes him back gently, one hand flat on his chest, and he's surprised enough to let her. "I wasn't kidding. Lorenz is having kittens. He thinks you've climbed out of a window and run off."

That does sound preferable to taking tea with Ferdinand. "Well, now that you mention it, that does sound preferable-"

"But where would we be without our most glorious leader? Sorry, Claude. You can't get out of this." She swings her legs over to sit upright, and _sighs_. Again. "I've talked to him already. He's fine. I know Seteth thinks- well. I know what Seteth thinks. But he's still _Ferdinand_. I just don't think he _would_, you know?"

He joined their class at Teach's suggestion. He'd been diligent, if not bright, and threw himself into whatever was needed, whether it was stable duty three weeks on the trot or a last minute substitute in choir. He'd been so sweet and uncomplicated that Claude hadn't ever really given him that much time, until Edelgard declared war on the church and Ferdinand, lost in thought, had chewed his lip until it bled and ruined a dull but priceless book on the history of Almyran military tactics. When Lorenz had said - as they passed around vulneraries and lances, aware that the Empire was coming but not when, the early sick pulses of adrenaline making his heart pound - _"we've lost Ferdinand"_, Claude had honestly assumed that he'd died. News that he had reclaimed the Aegir dukedom and then lost it again were part of the everyday gossip his spies returned from an Empire that showed few signs of cracking within. So he'd ignored it. Gain a minister, lose a minister; Edelgard showed no signs of stopping, and he had his own borders and politics to consume his days.

Of course it was Ferdinand who came back to them first. Of course it was someone who Edelgard knew Claude knew she'd fallen out with, someone who could be reasonably expected to hold a grudge. And then there's Lorenz. They'd always been close, Ferdinand and Lorenz, two birds of the same pompous feather. How fortunate, then, that a former Imperial minister with such close ties to Claude's second-most trusted advisor - after Teach, clearly, but before Hilda, who would be grateful to hear it - should resurface at such a critical point in the war. Right as they started to become something more. With the monastery, and the Knights, they could become the spear that pierces Edelgard's armour. Why wouldn't she try to insert a fatal flaw?

His head swims. Hilda has her head cocked to one side, watching him carefully. "Should I ask Lorenz to serve it in here? Only... it's kind of a mess, and I think Seteth was hoping he'd finally get some use out of his office again."

"No," he says, and he manages to make it sound _easy_. "No. I'm just. Waking up. Give me two minutes, and I'll be there."

Hilda's nose wrinkles, but she doesn't argue. She sweeps to her feet delicately, and pats down her skirts. "Two minutes," she says, firmly. "If you're not out by then, I'm telling Lorenz he can kick the door down."

"I'll aim for one."

"Mmm. Take two. You really need to change." And she's gone, sweeping out like a pink tornado. Claude looks down at himself, and realises he only removed the outer layer of armour from his flight gear before collapsing into bed. His quilted training jerkin - though wonderful for altitudes and dawn in midwinter - is not good sleeping wear. He sniffs at an armpit cautiously and recoils. Yuck. He's damp and sticky all over, but particularly in the places it matters most for personal comfort. Not that he's expecting anyone to be in a position to inspect it, but still. Getting ready to face a suspected double agent in two minutes is going to be a stretch.

* * *

He manages it in three, somehow. His hair is still singed from Lysithea's wayward bolt in the ruins, and he has to leave his magnificent suit of gold on his bed. The left sleeve still hasn't been mended, and is threatening to spill its stuffing with every move. All put together, it's not a look that says mastermind tactician and venerable leader of the Alliance. He ends up wearing an ochre tunic he hasn't thought about in years, which feels a little like he's a child wearing his mother's clothes to dress up. It's a little bit disappointing that it's only tight around his shoulders. Still, it comes with a matching cravat, and this is the kind of thing Ferdinand has always been receptive to.

Hilda is idling outside his room and trying to make it look she isn't. She's pulled her hair up, and found some accessory he hasn't seen before to keep it there. He can't resist touching it as he passes, and murmurs, "that looks nice."

"Wouldn't suit you, I'm afraid. But thanks. I made Marianne one to match, but I've hardly seen her since we got Garreg Mach back."

The glut of work and shortage of hands has been hard on everyone, but it's the insight he needed into exactly why she was so uncharacteristically short with him earlier. He's known her for five years now, and, like most secret romantics, she's never coped well with being lovelorn. He puts his arm around her shoulders, and pulls her in for a hug as they walk. "You can go see her now, if you want."

"No," Hilda sighs, "I promised Lorenz I'd babysit you through this." He squeezes her, and she leans into the point of contact. "I didn't think I was that obvious."

She's been mooning over Marianne for years. "You weren't," he says. "I just know you better. But chin up. Just one war to win, and then you can spend the rest of your lives together!"

She laughs, and pushes away. "Just one war! Easy, then! What are we doing here?"

Seteth's door is ajar, but Hilda raps her knuckles against it sharply. "You may enter!" he calls.

Inside, it looks more like a teatime than an interrogation. The atmosphere is light and pleasant, and even Seteth is lifting a fine china teacup to his mouth.

"What an exceptional brew," he murmurs, and Ferdinand, pouring, blushes. Ferdinand. Pouring. Claude clearly needs to find time for a very practical demonstration of the debilitating effects of stomach poisons. He stares at Lorenz, trying to burn a hole in the silky curtain of beautiful hair with his eyes. An explanation, please. Anything.

Lorenz finally looks up. "Ah, Claude," he says, brightening. "Do sit. You're just in time."

His heart sinking, Claude pulls up a chair. Hilda lounges on the doorframe. She's not doing a very good job of not looking like his bodyguard, but he's grateful for it. There's something to be said for the judicious application of violence, particularly with traitors. He's glad she's there. She starts cleaning her nails. That spoils the effect. 

"I suppose," Lorenz says, perfectly conversationally, "you're wondering why we're calmly taking tea with a man who renounced the Empire."

"Yeah," says Claude, leaning back in his chair. It's not polite. He's not in the mood for niceties.

"Ferdinand has told us his circumstances, and Seteth and I are quite in agreement that things are as he says they are."

"Indeed," Seteth says. "I myself find nothing doubtful in his story or the Professor's judgement in this matter."

"Really?" Claude says, lacing his fingers behind his head and staring at Ferdinand. "I'd love to hear this, then."

"Of course, I must explain-" Ferdinand starts, and stops, flustered. "I mean no harm to you or your allies. I assure you, I _am_ aware of how this must look." If Claude was in his position, they'd all be in the infirmary. That probably hasn't even occurred to Ferdinand, who clasps his hands around his teacup. His fingers are well manicured, long and elegant, but they're trembling slightly. Lorenz starts to pour a new cup, but Claude isn't interested in tea.

"Let's start at the beginning. How did you get away?"

"My official position has been moot for some time, and I have no control over the von Aegir estate. That I survived in the Empire at all was entirely due to the kindness of my former classmates. Therefore, I had a certain degree of freedom to choose my own course of action, and upon hearing of your victory retaking Garreg Mach, knew with surety what I had to do!" He's pink in the face, and pauses after his last word, as though he's expecting a more positive reaction. _Please clap_. "U-unless you mean in a purely literal fashion, in which case you may find my horse in the stables."

"Fascinating. And after you renounced Edelgard, to her face? She just let you go?"

Ferdinand's hands are trembling violently. "I confess... I did not renounce the Emperor once I had heard of your return. Her Majesty and I have not been in contact for several years. I should imagine she even now has little idea of what I have done."

"Wow," says Claude. "Swear that on your life?"

"Claude!" Lorenz hisses. And to Ferdinand, of all people: "Forgive him. He is sadly all too predisposed to suspicion, being such a suspicious sort himself." He was right, unfortunately, that Lorenz would be an easy target for Edelgard's espionage. Claude has come to value him deeply, but he can't seem to stop himself believing the best in people.

"So you haven't seen her or spoken to her for years, yet you were reliant on the charity of your classmates, all of whom, bar you, currently serve in her official government. But you're certain she has no idea what you've done."

Ferdinand starts twisting a strand of his ridiculous hair around his finger. He's clearly flustered. "I- suppose I had not thought of it, in that way-"

"I think," Claude says, lifting a leg up to rest his ankle on his knee. "That I'd like the truth, please, Ferdinand von Aegir. What did Edelgard offer you in exchange for being her spy? Your lands back? The safe return of your father? A place by her side as, what was it? _Prime Minister?_"

Ferdinand starts shaking. "That is- I-!"

"How long has it been, hmm, since she took it all away from you? It must have been devastating. Hadn't you wanted that, and only that, your whole life long? What wouldn't you have done when she said she could hand it all back to you, no questions asked?"

Tea crests the side of Ferdinand's cup in a pale pink wave. He's so close to spilling it and making a mess.

"Or is the other way around? Do you hate her? Would you join with us just to see her dead?"

Ferdinand drops his cup as he stands. "That's enough!" Lorenz dashes forwards with a silk handkerchief, but Ferdinand doesn't seem to notice. The pale tea - it must be rose petal, with such a delicate, floral smell - soaks into the tablecloth. Seteth looks mortified.

"We are at _war_."

"Sit down," Seteth says, firmly. He is staring at the table in horror. "I have heard quite enough."

Ferdinand seems to come back to himself, and flushes with embarrassment. Even the tips of his ears turn bright red. "Of course- I-" He sinks, awkwardly, pulling a starched white handkerchief out of his pocket, and helplessly dabs at the pale pink pool. "What was I thinking-"

And there, on the corner, in delicate black embroidery: the symbol of the von Vestra household. Claude sees the moment Lorenz sees it, his whole body stiffening, like a frightened cat. Hilda's watching carefully, and she freezes. Then her eyes snap up to Claude. He hasn't moved, hasn't let himself react. He meets Hilda's stare. _I see it._

She mouths _what are you going to do?_ Or he hopes she does, because he can't actually read lips that well. He glances at Ferdinand, who's still fretting about the tea. _I've got a plan_, he mouths, and winks. Hilda's lips turn down with disgust.

"Hilda, could you please fetch our guest some rags? There'll be some in the infirmary that should clean up this mess." She bolts. "If only we'd thought of that earlier," he says, leaning forwards but pointedly not helping. "We could've saved your nice handkerchief."

"My handkerchief? I can't see why- Oh. Oh." Ferdinand stiffens slowly like rigour mortis, and sinks back down into his chair as a solid, petrified mass. It's almost remarkable. He clenches his hands so tightly the knuckles start to go white. "I suppose there's little chance of convincing you I'm not a spy now."

Hilda throws a pile of absorbent rags at Seteth, who looks confused, but starts mopping. She resumes her post by the door, and does a terrible job of looking like she isn't hanging on to every word.

"Try me," Claude says, with good humour he doesn't completely have to fake. Now they're getting somewhere. "Tell me, truthfully, why you have a handkerchief that so obviously belongs to _Hubert von Vestra_." 

Ferdinand, who more than any of them believed in the innate goodness of nobility, would never stoop to stealing. And Claude can't imagine that the von Vestra estate would provide pickings as slim as a single monogrammed handkerchief for any more professional group. It wouldn't make it to market, let alone circulate enough to end up in the hands of Ferdinand von Aegir. But it couldn't have been a gift. Claude had never known Hubert well, but he'd recognised enough of the man to know that he would ensure gifts were carefully meted out to ensure loyalty. Definitely not a midwinter's gift. Besides, a single handkerchief? That would be far too intimate a gift for a man like Hubert. No, Claude would expect something more like the release of Ferdinand's prize hunting dogs, or the return of a childhood toy.

"Why? Sentimentality, I suppose." Ferdinand ducks, hiding his face behind his hair. "Needless, reckless sentimentality - I don't even know why. I suppose, I thought if I had something of his with me, it would be as though... Goddess, I'm a fool."

"You were close?"

"He sheltered me." _He did?_ "After Edelgard and I... had our disagreement, years ago, I was all set to leave the Empire for good. He approached me, and urged me to stay. If not in Enbarr then on his estate. He was certain she would wish to make amends. If not immediately, then someday. And I suppose he believed my council would have merit for her, should she feel ready to take it." Ferdinand laces and unlaces his fingers, and Claude watches them move. "I suppose, to some extent, he even believed in me. Not that _that_ is worth anything now."

This, at least, corroborates why Claude's intelligence network has had a Ferdinand shaped hole in it for the last few years. Hubert von Vestra controls the flow of information about himself and his estate carefully; bringing Ferdinand into it would be a masterstroke, protecting a resource and depriving Claude of this potential source in one swoop. He almost admires the man.

Lorenz puts a hand on Ferdinand's shoulder. Ferdinand seems to draw strength from it, and covers it with his own. It deprives Claude of his view, but then Ferdinand tilts his eyes up, and his hair falls back. Claude's mouth goes dry again. He can see why von Vestra might allow such _reckless sentimentality._ He wishes he hadn't turned down that tea.

Claude clears his throat. "Why did you and the Empress fall out in the first place?"

Ferdinand looks away again, to Lorenz, who does his best not to crumple under the weight of such noble emotions. "How can I describe it. She has strong goals, lofty goals, I suppose. And I may not have agreed with how she wanted to carry them out, but ideologically, I could understand her vision. But she was... _is_. She is taking bad advice. Not from Hubert-" and he colours again. "-but the man who calls himself Lord Arundel. More and more, he pushes her to act divisively. And I fear she is approaching a precipice. Once she crosses it, there will be nothing left of her to save."

He turns to Claude with all the weight of his tragic and noble bearing which is alarming. "Please," he says, "I beg you, please save her before it's too late!"

"Would you believe," Claude says, slowly, "that we were going to do that anyway?"

* * *

It takes another hour, at least, to wrap up the discussion. Ferdinand is desperate to help - "I am remarkably skilled with horses! You must ask the professor, it's true!" - and Lorenz offers to be his supervisor. So they agree he can stay, for a month, for a trial, with harsh consequences if he is a spy. It'll leave a gap for the bookkeeping team, but he can take Leonie off hunting. She's complaining about the cold and midwinter is not historically the best time for game. She might even enjoy beating the books into shape. His head buzzes with all the problems this could solve, and the problems it causes, and he almost misses the professor as he passes them in the dining hall.

"Claude."

"Teach! Wow, I feel like I haven't seen you all day. What've you been up to?"

They hold up their plate for him to see. Extra chunky three fish stew. Great. His stomach would be turning if he weren't so hungry. "Good bites today", Teach says, and applies themself to the meal with gusto. They can put away as much as Raphael sometimes. Claude sighs, and fetches a plate. Teach shuffles up so they can sit together, and they eat in silence.

"How did you get on with Ferdinand?" Teach asks, out of the blue.

Claude stops pushing a chunk of formerly dried haddock around his plate. "He's interesting, actually. At first I thought he was in _too_ perfect a position for Edelgard not to have him spy on us. Plus he's not..." Teach makes a noise of assent. "So I thought if I just pushed him on it, he would crack, and admit it."

"Did he?"

"Yes, and no. It's not what I thought, at least."

Teach chews noisily. "Do you trust him?"

Claude abandons the haddock, and rests his chin on his hand. Does he? Ferdinand clearly feels some loyalty to the Empire, and cares enough about Edelgard to ask for her to be saved. On the other hand, he's utterly guileless, and would get so crushed with guilt at the thought of duplicity he'd immediately confess. And Lorenz, graciously, has offered to make it his problem, and not Claude's. What an unexpected perk to their nobility. "Enough, I think. I trust him enough."

Teach's eyes sparkle. Claude pushes them his plate - still half full - and stands up.

He's about to leave, brain starting to spin on the next problem, when he realises he's passing Marianne, and something he hadn't completely forgotten hits him like a bolt. He taps her on the shoulder.

"Marianne," Claude says, "I got you sky watch with Hilda."

She stops dead. "You didn't!"

"We're still working out the finer details-" He pauses, because she's smiling. Before the war, Marianne's smiles were a rare and fragile thing. He'd treasured them purely because they were so scarce. But since she's been back she's been smiling like, well, any normal person, and they haven't lost their value at all.

"I won't ask how you did it," she says firmly. "But thank you. Thank you so much."

"Take care of her up there," he says. "For me." She pats his arm.

"I will," she says. "Please go to bed."

He could. He's still tired from the early start and the cold. His nap earlier had staved off the worst, but then he'd been Ferdinand von Aegir'd for at least an hour. No one would think any worse of him if he just went to bed.

On the other hand, he's still amalgamating the inventories of the Church, the Knights and his group. And only he knows what still needs to be done - he'd been loathe to give the monks free rein to paw through his things, and they'd been equally unwilling for him to hand it over to what they considered his subordinates. It's a difficult choice, but he makes the one he has to, and swings his foot down to pivot towards the offices and away from his room.

He wakes again at the last bell, as Lorenz drapes a blanket over his shoulders. He feels stiff, eyes sticky and sore. "Shh," Lorenz says. "I'm just fulfilling a promise." Claude leans back into him, the heat of his touch, and his presence, and he must still be half asleep, because he lets Lorenz take his hand, and lead him through the monastery - stone corridors get so cold at night in winter - until he finds himself outside his room, staring at his own bed, with little recollection of how he got there.

He throws himself on it, remembering this time to strip down to his shirtsleeves, and has the best sleep he's had for the last five years. If he dreams, he doesn't remember it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bad advice" was a justification you see used a lot in Tudor rebellions - the understanding being that the monarch, who was put on the throne by God, couldn't possibly make mistakes but could take bad advice. You see the rebellions that make it to London occasionally storming the palace, and demanding the head of the King's closest adviser all for his own good. There's enough split sleeves in this game that I felt I'd probably get away with sliding that in here.
> 
> Again I owe the world to Mae and Birds, and shout out to Davide, who was also awake at 5 am this morning. If you were too, then I'm sorry.
> 
> Thanks for reading! There may be a bit more of a delay between this and the next chapter, but I am SO excited for things to keep going wrong for Claude.
> 
> Next chapter: The Siren


	3. The Siren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude is haunted by an unpleasant sight and an encounter with someone who dislikes him.

**Guardian Moon, 1185**

Life at the monastery settles into a routine, at once familiar and yet completely unlike his days at the Academy. Teach inexplicably resumes teaching, although they’ve abandoned the old Golden Deer classroom in favour of the enormous war table. Things get done, somehow, even if Claude never seems to find enough hours in the day to check everything off his to-do list. And it works. The only problem is that people keep  _ asking _ him things.

Like money. He gets asked a lot about money. And it’s not just from Leonie, who seems to lie in wait for him in the offices with questions like “did the Church really spend fifteen thousand gold on incense they didn’t even use” to “when Lorenz writes  _ personal expenditure _ in the ledger, how many times am I allowed to hit him?” He doesn’t ever have answers, but she seems satisfied by the process of asking him, and often leaves happily shaking her head. Within a week they’re no longer hemorrhaging money; within two, Leonie has somehow found enough spare to replace and refit some of the stained glass around the saints statues. Seteth is ecstatic. If he passes Lorenz rubbing his arm with a particularly sour face, he pretends not to notice it. Such are the demands of diplomacy.

Other times, people ask him about the war. Here’s what Claude knows about the war: there definitely is one. The bulk of Edelgard’s force is supporting the occupation of Faerghus from Fhirdiad and he’s happy to keep things that way. He has his classmates, their personal battalions, and sometimes a little support from whichever of the Knights isn’t chasing a wild rumour about Rhea this week. He can’t directly engage the Empire. He can't even plan for it. This, however, doesn’t seem to be the right response. Catherine in particular is interested in getting him to outline his battle plans - when to strike, and where, and how likely it is that Rhea will be there waiting. He gets very good at avoiding her very quickly.

And then there are the other kind of things he has to deal with now. It’s the things no one else knows what to do with, or maybe just doesn’t want to get involved in, so like a turd in the stream, or a cough in midwinter, they always seem to wind their way back to Claude. They’re much harder.

“Claude,” Seteth says, about two thirds of the way through the month, and in the middle of the first meal Claude’s enjoyed since his arrival. “I beg pardon, but there are a group of men at the gate who claim to be responding to your summons.”

He slurps a noodle out of the cabbage and herring soup. “Did they leave a name?”

Seteth frowns, probably at his table manners. “No, only that Duke Riegan was expecting them.”

Claude wants to leave them waiting. He’s been looking out for something he actually likes in the dining hall for  _ forever _ . Furthermore, he isn’t actually expecting anyone, much less people who think he appreciates being reminded of his formal title. And his soup's going to get cold. That's three good reasons not to get up and go with Seteth right now. He chews the noodle, contemplatively. It's got just a bit of bite in the centre. It's fantastic. Three strong, solid reasons to not get involved with this. He stands.

"Where are they?"

* * *

Pallardó and his men are clustered together in a nervous group at the bottom of the marketplace stairs. Claude can see a fair number of bandages even from a distance, but it's approximately the right size for the group from that night, barring the few more serious injuries, and the fact that they came back and announced it means there's probably not much of a grudge. The gatekeeper is staring at them fiercely from his designated spot. He does, however, snap Claude a little automatic salute as he passes. Claude returns it with a wink, and he looks slightly worried.

"Any news?"

"Greetings, Duke Riegan! Noth- no, one thing to report! There seem to be a group of ne'er-do-wells asking for an audience with you! But I'm keeping a close eye on them, sir!"

"Excellent work, as always," Claude says, and gives the gatekeeper another wink. If he was worried before, he's horrified now. "Let me know if anything else happens, please." 

"Informing you will be my number two priority, sir! After guarding the gate, of course!"

It’s sweet that he came back. He feels like a familiar piece of furniture - forgettable in its place, but striking in its absence. Claude’s caught Teach sprinting past just to stop and nod at him several times. Like most of the things Teach does, it’s endearing and inscrutable in equal parts. Claude is relearning how to live with it.

He continues to the marketplace, waving off a few eager shopkeepers, and gets a good look at Pallardó. He's cut his hair short, which doesn't suit him, and shaved his beard off, which sort of does. In any case, Claude suspects he doesn't want to be  _ immediately _ recognised as the man who attacked only a few weeks ago. He can appreciate the attempt.

He recognises Claude a heartbeat later, and drops into a hasty bow. After a moment his men do too, with varying degrees of competency. They’ve clearly practised.

“Duke Riegan! As requested, my men and I are here to report!”

Well, ok. He can work with this. “Excellent. What news of the bandit situation in the grounds?”

“Dealt with!” Pallardó barks, sweat beginning to bead on his brow. “I can assure you there will be no more problems from those men!”

“Well  _ done _ . Let me go get my purse-” Despite Leonie’s best efforts - he can clearly remember the disgust in her voice when she asked him " _ and you spend HOW much just on cloth?"  _ \- his personal fund is still empty, and it’s also far out of his immediate reach, stuffed under the mattress in his bedroom. But Pallardó doesn't need to know that. 

“Wait-” Pallardó gasps. “Please, my lord, we need no immediate payment. It is an honour just to continue doing business with you!"

"You are a remarkable man," Claude says, perfectly sincerely. "May the Goddess shine her light upon you for your thoughtfulness and generosity."

"By her blessings we are here," Pallardó agrees. Claude doesn't know much about the Goddess of Fódlan and never bothered much with theology in the Academy - the church's unwritten history was much more interesting - but he knows enough to feel confident that neither of them are reciting real prayers. "If you will take us into your service, my lord, you will find us nothing short of devoted."

Actually, he doesn't have much of a choice. "Very well," he says. "Speak to my recruiter, over there, opposite the blacksmith. He'll get you and your men appropriately equipped."

Pallardó bows deeply, and send his men away. They trudge down to the battalion recruiter with obvious displeasure. "My lord, if I may be so bold-"

Sure, why not? "You may speak."

"- I wonder if you would consider taking me on as-"

“Yoo-hoo! Professor!” Pallardó turns. There, striding through the main gates of Garreg Mach, is Dorothea Arnault. She’s a vision in wine-red silks, and she appears to be followed by a small army of children. They're all shapes and sizes, all ages too. Some are dressed appropriately for the weather. Most are not. Pallardó's men gawp. "Professor?" Dorothea calls again. She sees Pallardó, clearly speaking to someone with authority, and strides over. " _ Professor- _ Oh. Claude. It's just you."

He drops into a courtly bow. It’s just enough within the correct forms of etiquette that it isn’t  _ overtly _ rude. She’ll take it as mockery anyway. "Hello to you too, Dorothea."

“I need the professor.”

“Would you look at that! Teach isn’t here right now. Can I take a message?”

“Sure!” Dorothea says, smile bright and fake. “You can tell the professor that I need them. Now, Claude.” She makes a shooing motion with her hands. He stands his ground, partly because she's being rude - though she'd never been particularly fond of him even when they were classmates - and partly because he doesn't know where the professor is. He could make an educated guess. He could probably point her in the right direction. But - and this feels very important - she’s being rude.

“No can do,” he says, with a shrug.  _ Hey, I can waste your time just as much as you waste mine. _ She moves to stand on her tiptoes and peer over his shoulder - she must be looking for the pier - and he moves with her, blocking her view. “Sorry, Dorothea! Guess you have to talk to me!”

“Oh? Are you the Archbishop now, as well? I wasn’t aware the Duke of Riegan had such tremendous reach! And the stars in their heavens, are they subject to your will now, too? Someone inform the Church! The Goddess may yet walk the earth again.”

“I’d move the stars for you any time.” He winks, and watches her barely contain a flinch. She looks disgusted. He's filled with a childish, spiteful pride.

“This old game? How dull. And here I thought you’d grown up since we left school. If I must speak to you like a child, I will. I’m here for the church, and I need to see the professor.” She crosses her arms. One of the children, a real pipsqueak in a bundle of rags, tugs anxiously at her sleeve, and she crouches down so he can whisper in her ear. "I know," she replies, voice projected to carry, smoothing back the fine curly hair. "And I promise you, we'll be warm and fed soon. Please just be brave for a little while longer."

All other activity in the marketplace has stopped, and he can feel many pairs of eyes watching him intently. Claude knows when he's beaten. "My good man," he says, to Pallardó, who looks completely lost. "As your first act as my new retainer, please go and find a representative of the Knights of Seiros."

Pallardó sends him Alois. That's a mark against him right away. Seteth would have been commanding; Shamir would have dealt with it quickly; even Flayn would have found a way to disarm the situation and charm everyone in sight. But Alois sees the first grubby urchin and  _ melts _ . He’s actually beaming. 

“And who are you, then?” he booms, dropping to his knees. “Don’t be shy! You’re safe now, you see! This is Garreg Mach! We’ll take very good care of you here!”

Dorothea isn’t smirking, because that would disrupt her benevolent maternal aura. Surrounded by the children - some of whom are carrying other, smaller children - she looks like a statue of Saint Seiros sharing her wisdom with the world. Claude’s been in Fódlan for nearly six years now. He’s seen enough of those.

Alois, who is on the ground, is almost useless. “One at a time!” he laughs, rolling onto his back. “There’s room for everyone!” He’s throwing them up and down like a particularly ambitious and dimwitted juggler, but they seem to be enjoying it. The intent stares have mellowed, and people are now whispering to each other appreciatively. He catches snippets.  _ Such a kind soul. Mercy of the Church. Terrible thing. _ He truly wishes Pallardó had found Seteth instead.

"Have you remembered where the professor is, Claude?" Dorothea runs her fingers through her hair with carefully calculated nonchalance. "Lovely as this reunion is, it's really far too cold for the children to be outside like this for long. Especially after they’ve come such a long way.”

“I was wondering where their parents are, actually.”

“Dead.” Dorothea snaps. “Congratulations! Consider this your formal introduction to some of Enbarr’s war orphans. Before you ask, yes, I did rescue them from the streets.”

Claude reassess the group. His heart sinks. There's no way they're all related, definitely. That'd be one incredibly busy and multicultural set of parents. What they have in common, then, is poor clothing, an expression of hopelessness and early signs of malnutrition. There are still children carrying other, smaller children. It's just the saddest thing in the world. It didn't snow today, and the early afternoon sun is about as bright as it gets in Guardian Moon, but they're still shivering.

He doesn't have enough food and money to feed and raise an army. He barely has enough to feed his people, the Deer and the monks who've come to be reliant on him since winning back Garreg Mach. He can't spread anything thin enough to allow for twenty desperate refugees.

He can't turn away children.

He can't do it, because the marketplace is full of people watching, but he couldn't do it even if it was just him and Dorothea all alone. At the very least they need shelter, and the one thing the church still has in abundance is empty dormitories. "The professor is probably in the gardens," he says, hating himself for wilting, and hating himself for his moment of self-hatred. "Start looking by the gazebo." They've been visiting it more recently, but Claude doesn't know why. He'd just been surprised it was still standing.

Dorothea bustles off. Her child army follow after a moment's indecision and Alois gets swept along with it, like a turd in the winter streams. Good. Great. Dorothea can make the case to the professor, and Alois can add whatever he has to add that's of value, and they'll sort it and that's that. The marketplace crowds disperse.

Claude wants to sit on the steps and cry, or at least put his head in his hands until Teach found a solution. But he’s the Leader of the Alliance, he’s the man standing against the Empire, he has people relying on him. He can't possibly do that. He steels his resolve, sets his jaw, and strides off towards the stables to sit on the steps and cry there.

Raphael comes over before he's managed to get any tears out. He has managed a fantastic funk, though, and is feeling so sorry for himself he almost doesn't notice until Raph claps an enormous hand on his shoulder.

"Everything good?" Raphael asks. He's so kind. Claude doesn't deserve a friend like him. He bets he looks  _ miserable _ right now, really wretched. He hopes Dorothea sees. He hopes she feels bad about it. Raphael sighs, and settles down next to him. There's shuffling, and the clinking of china, but Claude won't indulge his curiosity and look. He's simply much too sad right now. Raphael places a bowl of cabbage and herring soup next to him and it steams invitingly. Claude feels his mouth water.

"Heard you didn't finish lunch today," Raphael says, conversationally. "That's no good. You've gotta keep your strength up." There’s a clink as Raphael places a spoon on the bowl's rim. It smells delicious.

"Thanks," Claude mutters, and then feels guilty because Raphael really didn't have anything to do with his bad mood. He reaches for the spoon, because it’s there, and it would just be unkind to ignore Raphael’s gift because he was having a one-person pity party. It’s heavenly. The cabbage is fresh, the fish is tender and bitter all at once, and the noodles still have that resistance once he bites through to the centre.

Raphael settles in next to him, staring up at the sky. “Can’t say I know what it’s like, being the leader and all. Reckon the professor probably made the right choice when they asked you. But the way we are, everyone’s got their own things they’re good at. Hilda and Lorenz, they can talk to people like no one else. And we’ve got real smart people, like Leonie, and Lysithea, and Ignatz. Marianne’s so kind with the animals. And you… I’unno how to put it, but you can make people believe you, Claude. You can say anything and it sounds true.”

Claude slurps noisily. “That sounds kind of damning, actually.”

“What I’m trying to say, is - everyone’s got their stuff they’re good at, and everyone’s got stuff they need help with. Teach helps me with tactics. And I help everyone else with my muscles! So don’t sweat it.” Raphael claps his shoulder again in a way that’s probably meant to be friendly and reassuring. Claude chokes on a half-inhaled noodle. As Raphael smacks his back with the power and resolve of a draft horse, Claude realises that he might have a point. And a few broken ribs, if Raphael doesn't stop soon.

"Stop-" he wheezes, "stop, I'm okay, I'm okay. Whew!” Raphael still looks concerned, so he sets the bowl down. “Thank you,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “I think I get what you mean.” Raphael beams at him. 

Everyone has things they are good at. Dorothea might be persuasive, and cunning, and great at causing a public scene to get what she wants, but Claude is sneaky, cunning and secretive. He knows what’s in the ledgers. She is not getting away with this. He has an idea, and the steps he needs to follow are falling into place ahead of him.

First, he’ll finish the soup.

* * *

He finds them in the Reception hall, and Dorothea is already arguing with Seteth. He ducks behind a pillar to listen. It’s bad form for a noble, probably, but staying hidden and paying attention are old habits he can’t quite kick.

"Believe me, if we had other options I wouldn't have bothered-"

"It is simply beyond question. We cannot accommodate you or these… infants."

"Then what of the Goddess's mercy?"

Seteth folds his arms, unfazed. "What of the Church in the Empire?"

"There  _ is _ no church in the Empire-"

"Then perhaps," Seteth says, his voice completely flat, "it should fall to your emperor to establish some orphanages of her own."

Dorothea's shoulders slump. "I tried. I promise you, I tried. But Lord Arundel wouldn't hear of it, and then she cast me out and it's  _ midwinter _ . If I left them, they would die."

She steps closer to Seteth, and touches his arm. Claude can't believe it. He almost admires her nerve. "Have you ever been on the streets, my lord? Ever had to beg for scraps? Ever slept in a doorway, and in your late night prayers, asked the Goddess in all her mercy to stop you waking up again?"

Seteth is clearly starting to falter. "I will admit-"

"I have." Dorothea says this so calmly Claude thinks he's misheard. Of course, she's an actress, an expert pretender. She could convince anyone the sky was green. There's no reason to trust her on this. "I will never do it again. Seteth, I would do  _ anything _ -"

He pulls back, shaking off her hand. "Yes, well… That will not be necessary.” He clears his throat. Can he not look at her? To be fair, it’s a tactic Claude hasn’t tried yet. He’s not sure he’d even survive the attempt.

Dorothea’s hand is now making a fist in her dress at her waist. “I promise you I won’t ask for anything more. But, please… the children. This is the last place they could go.”

“I can appreciate that,” Seteth sounds. He sounds almost pained. “But-”

“But,” Claude interjects, making himself known as he emerges from behind the pillar, “we’re at war. In fact, we’re at war with the very Empire that orphaned them.” Oh, Dorothea really isn’t happy to see him. He wants to draw it out, and indulge in her obvious annoyance. Dorothea tries to be so silky-smooth and sweet, but he finds himself drawn to her sharp edges, the way her disdain bleeds through. For him, personally, but also for the nobility he represents, and the system that put him above her. He’s almost glad time hasn’t tempered her. There’d always been a firebrand burning beneath the perfect girl. Unbidden, he remembers the way one of the toddlers clung to the girl who held her. The way she’d trembled when someone in the marketplace raised their voice.

He’ll make it quick, then. “We barely have enough food for ourselves. We have no troops, no supply lines-” he’s leaving that for Lorenz and Leonie to start looking at next week, so it’s not a complete lie. Gloucester credit goes far, and Leonie will make sure he actually spends it on something useful. “And you’re right, it’s midwinter. To be honest, this might be the worst place to bring a handful of traumatised orphans. We can put a roof over their heads, sure, but that’ll only keep them safe long enough for the food to run out. And if the Empire attacks?”

They’ll just be another target. They won’t fight in his name, he’ll make sure of that. But there’s no guarantee their enemies will be quite so merciful. 

Dorothea is strangely quiet. He glances at her, curious. Her eyes are glistening with tears. Claude feels like the floor has dropped out from beneath him. She isn’t. She can’t be. Seteth looks mortified. Claude, for once, doesn’t know what to do, or what to say. The silence stretches on. It is incredibly awkward.

Teach sticks their head around the door. “Hello, Dorothea,” they say, not at all surprised to see her. “Hello, everyone who’s not Dorothea. You’re late for council. Let’s go.”

They sprint off towards the stairs, dragging Seteth behind them and Claude follows at a far more measured amble. He knows he’s leaving Dorothea in the Reception Hall to cry. He doesn’t know what else to do.

* * *

Claude had called the council meeting that morning. It feels like a lifetime ago. Half of him wishes he hadn’t, but the other half is grateful that at least the implications of this new development can be shared out between the fine minds assembled there, or, even better, turned into someone else’s problem. He sneaks in a glance before he enters to see how well his lateness will be received. Raphael has brought in the heel of a loaf of dry bread and it audibly crunches every time he takes a bite. Claude can see Ignatz furtively sweeping the crumbs to the floor. Leonie, on Raphael’s other side, is frowning, but Claude’s lost track of whether that’s a good or bad thing for her.

Hilda’s drawn her chair very close to Marianne, and is having a whispered conversation that she can’t honestly think is private. She has her hand in front of her mouth, sure, but he can hear it. Marianne’s interested in it, at least, or at least more so than she is by Lorenz on her other side, who has a stack of agendas he’s shuffling and tapping on the table surface. Claude knows that every one of them will have been copied out in Lorenz’ immaculate copperplate this morning, and that every one will end up in a fireplace before the day is out. Lysithea is the only person who’s reading their copy, and she doesn’t look best pleased with it.

Flayn is perched on a chair next to the professor, who looks like they sat next to Leonie on a whim and now feels lost. Seteth, at least, has sat down in his assigned seat, although he’s still a little pink from being dragged in at the professor’s speed.

Claude decides to sit as far away from anyone else as possible. He has to walk all the way around the table to do it, but it’s perversely satisfying that everyone has to watch him before the meeting can start, and to hear all the conversations dwindle as he approaches. It’s almost orderly. Raphael keeps crunching, but at least he’s trying to be discreet now.

“So!” Claude says, taking his seat and trying to sound brighter than he feels. “Before we start on the agenda proper, I’ve got some news. We’re getting famous.”

Hilda’s the only one who takes the bait. “We are?”

He places his elbows on the table and leans on them. “We are! We are now the go-to institution for Enbarr’s very own war orphans!”

They all take a moment to digest that.

“But that’s-” Ignatz begins. “Claude, we can’t-”

“Unbelievable,” Leonie says, sitting back and crossing her arms. “You turned them away, right?”

That sparks a ripple of disagreements - Ignatz turning to her and saying  _ “are you serious?” _ , Leonie shooting back  _ “are you?” _ , Lorenz quoting some figures from the budget and Lysithea irritably correcting him. Then it’s a free for all, with Hilda’s  _ “not my problem!”  _ rising above the din, and whatever Marianne has to say sinking into it. He even hears Flayn speak up, her face screwed up into a particularly determined scowl:  _ “but what of the church’s mercy?” _ . It’s chaos. Raphael crunches throughout, incorrectly assuming he won’t be heard.

Claude is giving them a minute to get it all out of their system when Teach stands up. They fall roughly into order, having had some previous experience. The professor looks strangely intense. They seem to do that more these days, Claude is noticing, flicking between intently present and lost in some other world. He doesn’t remember it from before the war.

“Dorothea has arrived from the Empire’s capital with children who need clothes, food and shelter. We are going to provide it. That is not in question. It is the right thing to do.” Claude must remember to ask them later how exactly they got all that information. Maybe Pallardó hadn’t been convinced by Alois, and kept looking for Church authority to send to him.

Hilda twirls a lock of hair around her finger, and sticks up a hand. “I don’t disagree, it’s definitely right. But professor, what are we going to do with the children? They aren’t going to do work, or fight, or-”

“We will not ask them to.” There’s a flicker of something like an emotion over the professor’s face. “We will never do that.”

No one looks at Lysithea, who’d been just fifteen when the fighting began. No one looks at the tapestries displaying the logo of Seiros. If anyone’s thinking about Cyril, who still refuses to attend the council as he’s entitled to in favour of mopping floors and dusting door frames, they don’t say it. Claude doesn’t know why the Knights spend so much time chasing wild rumours about Rhea. He seems to find her ghost in every corner he turns.

“Shit,” Hilda mutters. “Sorry, professor. That’s not what I meant, but-”

“In any case,” Claude interjects, because he’s had enough awkward conversations today. “We’ll be proceeding like Teach said, and we’ll take these kids in. Somehow, our amazing treasurers will find a way to cover this. At least for now, until we can think of a better solution. Unless anyone has any brilliant ideas they’d like to share…?”

Raphael puts his hand up. He must’ve run out of bread. “Why don’t we re-open the school?” He glances around, trying to gauge the non-reaction. “Not the Officer’s Academy, but the regular school. The one they used to run for the village kids. You don’t know it? Aw, heck. Way it used to be, they did the Academy for the knights and nobles, and you had to pay a lot. But the Church also did reading and writing and sums for just about anyone in the school down in the marketplace. You could drop in and get some tutoring for just a few pennies, and there was always kids in there. It’d keep Dorothea’s bunch out of trouble, and then we could ask anyone else who was coming to chip in and help keep it running.”

It’s kind of brilliant. “I’m not saying it won’t work, but who would teach it?” 

Raphael colours. “Uh, there’s the professor-”

They shake their head. Teach is brilliant in many ways, but Claude has cooked with them. Teach only knows weapon skills, formations, tactics. They’re a mercenary through and through. They aren’t going to teach snot-nosed kids how to hold their very first quill.

“I could do it.” There’s silence, as though people can’t place who spoke up. Lysithea looks indignant when everyone turns to stare at her. “I could! I’ve done it before!”

“Well, I won’t stop you, but-”

“But what, Claude? I can do it. Even though it’s a good plan, we definitely don’t have a better one. That old building, the old schoolhouse, it’s still standing. Right, Raphael? So I’ll do it.”

It’s a very good plan. The only issue is that Lysithea gets winded after picking up a training sword, and within a few weeks of starting Teach had agreed she would learn magic and theory only. There are a lot of kids. Some of them might even be rowdy. But if he asks her outright if she can handle it, she’ll claw his face off.

“I’ll do it too.” Ignatz looks resolved. It’s a new look for him. “There’s a lot of kids, right? It’ll probably help if there’s two people they can talk to. I’ll still do my other jobs around the monastery, I promise.”

“And Alois, he loves kids, right?” Hilda’s slumped back in her chair, dropping the pretence that she’s not listening. “Can’t he take over the real baby babies? That’s gotta be better than him running off anywhere because someone said  _ liar  _ with a blocked nose.”

“Indeed,” Seteth says. “Perhaps all of us in the faculty who have relevant experience could help in that regard.” Claude can’t even imagine Seteth changing a nappy. But then again, Claude also can’t imagine him lying.

“Ok,” he says. “So we are going to accept this group of refugees - yes, Leonie, this is going to be a one time thing, don’t glare at me - and we will find them housing and bedding somewhere. Lysithea and Ignatz are going to run a day school for the older ones down in the market, and Alois can help Dorothea with the little ones. We’ll open the school to everyone, and ask them to contribute to its running. Everyone happy with that?”

There’s a murmur of assent. Some of the tension behind his eyes starts to lift. “Fantastic. We’ll review it in one month - Lorenz, can you put it on the agenda?” He’s grateful, he realises, that his classmates pretty much found a solution amongst themselves. It feels like he’s spent all day in the stream, watching the incoming turd with horror, only for the currents to sweep it well past him. And thinking of that…

“Before we get properly started on the first item on this month’s agenda, which is my proposal for a new flag, I have some  _ serious _ questions about how the monks are handling the sanitation right now…”

* * *

In all the excitement, Claude almost forgets to check in with their newest recruit. Ferdinand throws himself into work with a passion that makes Claude feel a little guilty. Not for doubting him - no, any amount of doubt would do Ferdinand a lot of good - but for not applying himself in equal measure. It’s making him look bad. He happens to pass Ferdinand in the stables, way past the eventide bell. He’s stripped down to his undershirt and braces, and the muscles in his arms and back flex and strain as he forks through the bedding, removing the dirty straw. Claude knows he shouldn’t stand and watch, that he’s intruding somehow, but Ferdinand remains absorbed in his work. Lorenz, who appears to be  _ neglecting his noble duty _ , is nowhere in sight. Excellent. Claude won't let him forget that easily. After a moment, Claude clears his throat.

Ferdinand jumps, nearly cracking his head on a beam. “Claude! You surprised me!”

Claude leans over the door. “Hey, you surprised me first. I didn’t expect to see you out here doing this, well… ever.”

Ferdinand flushes. “I will admit that perhaps, in the past, I may have implied it was beneath me. But I cannot simply provide noble instruction and assume it will be done as I am their better! That is the approach of a narrow-minded fool. You may laugh, but I have now realised I must set an example, too.”

“I won’t laugh,” says Claude. “You’re right. Here, let me-” and before he knows why he’s doing it, he’s stripping off his overcoat and letting himself in. There’s a spare pitchfork, so he grabs it, and mimics Ferdinand’s motion of lifting up the piles of straw. The stench of ammonia it releases is overwhelming, and Claude’s eyes water painfully.

“Ah-” Ferdinand says, “I should have warned you-” and he passes Claude a handkerchief. Claude gratefully wipes his eyes. The handkerchief has a soft pink tinge to it and Claude pretends not to see the embroidered "HvV" in the corner. It isn’t like he could definitively say it was there or not, with his eyes watering like this. It could have been any black mark. Besides, Ferdinand has as much right to sentimentality as the rest of them.

“What  _ is  _ that-” he gasps, once he’s finished choking. “Surely the horses can’t-”

Ferdinand laughs nervously. “I’m afraid they do. And even well shod, to be stabled in such a state invites a breakdown of the tissues of the hoof, as well as infection. Clearing it regularly is of the utmost importance for their health.” He wipes his brow with his forearm. “I apologise. As I said, I should have warned you. I am afraid I do not notice it as much anymore.” He moves to offer his Claude his overcoat.

Claude doesn’t take it. “Oh no,” he says. “I’m not letting some dirty straw defeat me. Besides, the sooner we finish, the sooner we can wash up.”

Ferdinand chuckles, and pulls over a barrow that’s already precariously full of waste. “My friend, you may favour the wyvern, but we shall make a horseman of you yet!”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Claude says, grasping the pitchfork and trying to breathe through his mouth. It does go more quickly with two, even if Claude isn’t completely sure what he’s doing. Ferdinand when passionate is an involved, patient teacher, and like all physical work, once Claude finds the rhythm, it’s almost easy. The last bell sounds, and he stands up, back popping as he unloads the last of the mess in the barrow.

“Goddess. Is it really that late?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” says Ferdinand, so serenely he probably means it. “This is excellent work, Claude, truly excellent. I should wager the citizens of the Alliance are proud to be under your care!” Before Claude can respond, Ferdinand sweeps an arm under his and bears them off to the pile of discarded clothing. It’s cold, this late in the evening, and their breath makes fine puffs of white, but Claude really doesn’t want to put his overcoat back on. He folds it over his left arm and smooths the fabric down, suddenly unsure about his next move. The motion releases a fresh wave of horse stink. Ah. Yes.

“Messer von Aegir,” he says, sweeping the arm holding the coat down in some approximation of a bow. “Will you do me the pleasure of accompanying me to the baths?”

“Why, Duke Riegan, it would be my honour!”

“Fantastic,” Claude says, gathering a lantern. “With the greatest respect in the world, you smell  _ terrible _ .”

Claude wakes up the next morning to a head full of Ferdinand’s laughter and a note shoved under the door. It reads, in the most meticulous penmanship:  _ Dear Claude, I can only beg your forgiveness. I needed to put these thoughts in a letter and therefore could not explain myself to you in person. While I have  _ \- and there the word “greatly” is scratched out -  _ enjoyed our time together, I cannot lie to myself, and I do not wish to lie to you. There is still another who - _ deletion of inflames -  _ captures my heart. It would be simply unkind for me to continue on with you as though this were not so. Therefore, I must humbly ask that we remain, as we are, friends. Please understand this has not been an easy letter to write. Yours in everlasting friendship, Ferdinand von Aegir. Garreg Mach Monastery. The Church of Seiros. Fódhlan. _ He’d misspelt Fódlan. Somehow that’s what first catches Claude’s eye.

Claude stares at the letter, and scratches his beard. “I didn’t even know we were dating,” he says, mostly to hear it out loud. He burns the letter, and spends an extra couple of minutes crouched by his fire, poking the charred scraps back in until there’s nothing left. It doesn’t feel freeing.

He sits back against the fireplace, and unfurls the prototype of their new flag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Dorothea. I'm starting to regret challenging myself to essentially give Claude a support with every other character in the game, but I like making him run into people who would have very valid reasons to dislike him. I imagine he tried to be very Claude at her once, back at the Academy, and she's held it against him ever since.
> 
> Huge thank you to Mae, as always. 17 more chapters or so and I'll stop talking about this, I promise.
> 
> Thanks for reading! A tougher chapter to write, because no one got into a fight and there was only one sexually charged interrogation, but such is life. 
> 
> Next chapter: The Fool


	4. The Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Guardian Moon draws to a close, Claude writes a letter, and enacts a plan.

**Guardian Moon, 1185**

_“We’re attempting our own miracle.” _

Last week, that had been his justification for using the Crest of Flames as their symbol. It had gone down pretty well - the Knights liked the clear association between Teach, Rhea, and the church, and his classmates had liked raising the banner as a new cause to believe in. As far as Claude’s concerned, it’s not the flag of the Alliance, and that’s what matters. He can imagine the next roundtable if he came out in open rebellion against the Empire. Margrave Edmund would put them all to sleep as he lectured on the ways neutrality and open trade would save them although Duke Goneril - so much like his sister - would be asleep at the table before he’d even begun. Count Gloucester would be seething, and if he didn’t denounce Claude as a traitor then and there, he’d almost certainly have him strangled in his sleep before the week was out. Only Lady Albany, there for House Ordelia, would be supportive, but she’d expect something from him later. No. Better to keep the Alliance out of it until his position was stronger.

Right now all he has is the monastery, Teach, and the handful of people who believe in him. That’s not much. That won’t win a war. The people might believe in the Church, but he needs material support: he needs food, weapons, soldiers. Trained soldiers, too - he knows enough about what happened in Hrym territory - not that conscription was ever a real option. So where does that leave him? 

The obvious answer would be to drum up support from the Alliance. Except for all their piety, Houses Ordelia, Gloucester and most of the smaller families including that snake Acheron are firmly pro-Empire. House Goneril are only concerned with their Eastern border. The smaller houses would only do so much. So he has one option.

He starts by writing the letter he wants to write:

_ Dear Mother, _

_ I'm broke! Send money, troops and food. _

_ xoxox _

Then he throws it into the fire.

_ Dear Lady Judith, _

_ As you are no doubt well aware, the Empire continues to press against our borders in Faerghus. I am therefore writing to each Great Family to request at their earliest convenience any contribution they can spare to maintain our sovereignty and neutrality. The Alliance will not exist without the efforts of its Great Lords to defend it, be it with money, troops, or supplies. Any contribution is welcomed. You need only nominate where you will be sending it from. We have taken command of the ruins of Garreg Mach monastery in order to better observe the developments in the Empire's Northern battlefronts and ensure our neutrality. _

_ For our ongoing friendship, and the future of the Leicester Alliance, _

_ Duke Riegan _

He puts the pen down and reads it over. Commanding, obsequious, and dull as dishwater. Not even Lorenz could beg more vapidly. It’s great. And if von Vestra’s agents get hold of it, even better. All of the leaning on formalities and the grandstanding should make him look desperate. Poor Duke Riegan, holed up in some rotting castle, begging for support just to keep his head above water. Let him underestimate Claude. Let him leave their resistance alone, chasing bigger fish in Faerghus. 

If he can bide his time - if he can wait it out - he can press the advantage when he’s ready to. He can turn the war to his own tempo. The more he can control, the more he can prepare for and mitigate damages. That's the only way to keep his promise. If he pictures his plans spread out before him, they're as thin and delicate as gossamer spider-silk. The slightest change, the smallest unforeseen development would be enough to throw everything off. In its own way, it's thrilling.

He's contemplating stealing a lemon, cutting a new quill and writing a secret message for von Vestra - a crude depiction of a certain organ would do _ wonderfully _ \- when his door slams open. "Claude," Ignatz gasps. "The Empire has been sighted nearby!"

* * *

The light is starting to fade as they gear up, and Claude has to trust that the rest of their group will manage as he heads up to the launching tower. The pegasi and wyverns - already stabled for the night - are confused and grumpy. Jerrie tries to take a bite out of Leonie's tunic, and she taps his nose in warning, making him snort angrily and stamp. At Claude's end of the aviary, things aren't much better. Mira sucks in a huge breath as he tries to tighten her harness. _ Really? _ he mouths at her, and she looks at Marianne plaintively, cheeks bulging with the breath. Cethie, of course, is behaving beautifully. Outside, Tessa starts shrieking, which means either that Hilda has managed to mount up, or that literally anything else could be happening. Mira exhales and he takes the chance to adjust, then swings himself up and into the saddle before she can make any more of a fuss. 

The sky is almost beautiful as he launches. The light's golden, making everything glow, and he wishes he thought it was a good omen. Has it really only been a month since he'd last been fighting at dusk to defend this place? It feels like forever, and also just yesterday. He’s not ready. He's barely started putting in some defences. Maybe the Empire is only expecting a handful of the knights. Maybe it'll be over soon.

"Aaaawwwwright!!!" 

His heart sinks. He knows that voice.

He pulls Mira up and round, getting a better view of the town. Against all the red flags and polished armour there's a speck of bright cerulean blue.

"Come on!!" Caspar shouts. "I can take you!”

Claude had known, indistinctly, that he was at some point going to fight someone he had once called classmate. They’d returned to the Empire, and to Faerghus, and those arbitrary divisions suddenly became meaningful. Maybe it was the war; maybe it was a natural consequence of dividing the world by country, birthplace, house. The people of Fódlan saw themselves beholden to where they were born in a way he didn't understand like they did; tied not to their people but to whichever barren estate they considered their land. He knew all of that and had thought he'd be prepared to see it in action. He just didn't expect it to be Caspar.

He circles down to Teach, who is helping the mages share out staves with a strange expression, and dismounts. "Have you seen their commander?"

"No," says Teach, shaking a magic staff and frowning. "But I heard him." Caspar's voice carried clearly in the sky, the acoustics of the Garreg Mach valley directing sound up and towards the silent monastery. It was helpful, in theory, for spotting invaders. Claude isn't sure if he feels grateful for it. But there was a chance that it hadn't carried down and along, that his companions on the ground didn't know. Teach excluded. Teach has freaky hearing anyway.

Lysithea's head turns: "him? Do you know him?"

"The Empire's not sending their best," Claude says. "Isn't it kind of insulting?"

Lysithea relaxes. "They'll take us seriously soon."

He pats her shoulder - patting her head while she has Thyrsus in a death grip is inviting her blast his hand off - and leads Mira off to check the rest of the infantry. He isn't lying to Lysithea, _per se_, he's just eluding the truth in the moment. She doesn't need to know right now. She'll figure it out soon, anyway. 

The heavy armours are suited and booted, although Raphael isn't looking the happiest Claude has ever seen him. He stops to check in. 

"Everything ok?"

"Yeah!" says Raphael, and then, "well, no. I just thought I heard something. From the soldiers." He scratches the back of his head ruefully, as though Claude is going to scold him for paying attention. "Aww, it's nothing. You go check on the horses. I'll take care of things here."

Claude can't help but look him over once again. 'If you're sure," he says. "But if anything changes let me know, ok?"

"Gotcha. And, Claude. I probably don't say it enough, but… I'm glad you're our leader. I know you'll see it through right."

Claude's heart catches on the lump in his throat. "Thanks, Raph. I'll try to be worthy." He wants to mount, to take off on Mira, to shoot upwards and not look back. He manages to walk briskly to the stables instead. What he wants- what he _ needs _ is Lorenz's sneering disapproval, his know-it-all smirk and honeyed explanation of Claude's every flaw. He needs to be told the truth right now; that's he not worthy, that he's not ready, that someone else has a plan should he fail.

Lorenz _ is _ in the stable, but he's arguing with Ferdinand, who unfortunately spots Claude first. "Claude!" he calls, spots of high colour in his cheeks. "This is absolutely absurd, I refuse-"

"What you are suggesting is unthinkable," Lorenz snaps, "and I will hear no more of it."

"With all due respect, I leave that to Claude's judgement-"

"And you will find it no different to mine!" Ferdinand jolts, like Lorenz's sharp tone has physically cut him. Claude needs Lorenz turning that tone on him, not Ferdinand. He needs Lorenz's full, focused attention. Ferdinand has a remarkable talent for getting in the way.

"What's this about?"

"Claude, he will not let me-" Ferdinand whines.

"The idea is ridiculous! You are well aware of that!"

"But I'm certain I could-"

"No," Lorenz says, icily. "I am not giving you a horse and a weapon and letting you run into the arms of the Empire. You can help Seteth evacuate the civilians. That will be enough."

Unfortunately, Lorenz has a point. Despite Ferdinand's many assurances and his admittedly excellent behaviour, sending him out against the first scouts who happened to find them would be like flying a flag from the top of the cathedral that read _ Hubert von Vestra, come get your man. _ Claude needs Ferdinand held back, ready in reserve so that when von Vestra does show himself it all comes as a surprise. Ferdinand's disarming sincerity is a far greater weapon than his lance right now. It has to be carefully aimed at the throat.

"Lorenz is right. No," and he holds up a hand to forestall Ferdinand's protests. "I understand, I do but Seteth needs your help now more than we do. Think about all those children Dorothea is looking after. She _ really _needs your help. Ferdinand, I know you think we don't trust you yet-" and actually, Claude's still not completely convinced, seeing as Ferdinand's whole story relies on von Vestra being able to feel any kind of normal emotions "-but we couldn't ask anyone else to do this." That at least is true. Everyone else is needed on the front line.

Ferdinand's chest swells up with pride. "Well, why didn't you say so earlier? I suppose in this instance that would be the far better use of my skills. It is my honour, no, my _ duty _ to help those in need!" Claude nods to dismiss him, and he happily trots away towards the cathedral. Hopefully Seteth won't be too cross with Claude. Hopefully Lorenz will.

But Lorenz is leaning back against a wall, smiling. "You handled that very well," he says. "I was about at the end of my patience."

"It's nothing," Claude says. This isn't how he hoped this would go. "That does leave us without any cavalry, though."

"Does it? I was rather expecting it would be me." 

"But your mare-"

"Fully recovered, thank you."

"But our back line-"

"I thought Lysithea would cover with Ignatz?"

Claude's head spins. "Lysithea is coming with Teach to the front. There's too many heavy armours, we need her magic to make a dent in them."

Lorenz's smile disappears. "Well," he says. "I don't know, then. Would Marianne handle backline healing?"

"Marianne and Hilda are covering the left. I can't send Hilda on her own, you know how silly Tessa gets when she's on her own and she sees magic."

"And you're still taking Leonie to sweep down the right?"

"That was my plan!" His plan, like gossamer, like spider silk, is starting to look like wet noodles. Claude's bowl, so big and cracking, is upturned on the dining hall floor. 

Lorenz pinches his brow. "And I don't suppose anyone else-"

"There isn't anyone else."

The noodles have been stepped in. His bottomless bowl, fully cracked, leaks soup.

Lorenz seems to get it, because he's quiet, thinking for a long time, and then he speaks, and Claude's head is filled with the sound of distant bees.

"I'm sorry?"

"Dorothea," Lorenz repeats, and Claude _ had _heard him correctly. "Have you asked Dorothea?"

Claude has to concede that he hasn't. "Well, no, but-"

"Why not?"

"She hates me."

"She hates all men. Please don't assume that you're special.” That strikes a nerve Claude hadn’t been expecting. He's perfectly capable of being dislikeable on his own merits. Lorenz continues, completely unaware. “But she's a good healer. The professor taught her personally." That's true. That's all true. Once again it's a good true point that Claude can't _ really _disagree with.

"She didn't come here to fight, Lorenz. She's made no offer to join our cause. We don't even know if she's_ loyal _-"

"Does it matter?"

"It mattered with Ferdinand!"

"Ferdinand wanted to be at the front, charging into his former comrades. Of course we can't trust him with that. Dorothea won't even see their soldiers."

"I'm not- Lorenz, I don't actually disagree, for once, but I don't think it'll be that easy. We don't even know if she can heal like that-"

But she can, and Claude knows she can, because he remembers Teach explaining the principles of the Physic spell one stuffy afternoon - it must have been Horsebow Moon, with the leaves just turning - and he and Hilda had taken turns handing a piece of paper back and forth, adding increasingly crude pictures and a label; _ ‘you’ _ ; until she’d handed him a fascinatingly detailed sketch of some genitalia and Teach had cleared their throat, making him jump. _ “If you’re quite finished-” _ Teach had said, and he’d shoved the paper into his pocket like it was burning his hand, and followed everyone outside for practical demonstrations. 

Physic - Teach described - was _ lift _ , and _ grow_. Lift the energy, and make your target grow. They’d practiced from ten paces away on plants carried out of the greenhouse, the afternoon still warm enough for the greenhouse keeper to allow it. Claude had been terrible at it; he couldn’t get the hang of focusing the energy through the seal. It had felt he was throwing snowballs at a window, with everything dissipating the moment it made contact with this surface he could barely see. Annette, who was having a similar problem, met his eyes and shrugged. 

Lysithea had launched her plant across the yard and into the pond. _ “I want to do that-” _ Linhardt had breathed, and then Caspar had made his plant explode, somehow. He remembered watching as the earth and pottery flew everywhere. Dorothea had been in the far corner, and somehow she caught his eye. Serene in the unfolding chaos, she cast Physic perfectly, again and again and again. A chunk of mud had landed in her hair and it didn’t affect her rhythm. She cast until her plant spilled over the edges. He remembered that she turned, looking for their reaction. Everyone was looking at Caspar. She'd crumpled.

"I'll see what I can do," he says, suppressing a groan. "No promises, though."

"Of course not," Lorenz agrees, turning back to his half tacked-up mare. "I'll save my praise until after you deliver us the victory."

Claude stops, and pivots to get a good look at him. "That’s a lot of pressure. I thought I was a no-good scheming upstart layabout?”

“Stop stalling,” Lorenz says, almost fondly. “And go talk to her.”

* * *

Dorothea is in the cathedral, as he’d expected. Seteth has Ferdinand cornered by the entryway, and seems to be explaining something in great detail. It’s enough for Claude to sneak past, and head straight for her. 

“Hey-”

She startles. “Claude? Aren’t you-”

“Change of plans,” he says, and tries to make it look like he has planned for this, like he’s always planned for this. “We’re down a healer. I can’t ask for anything, I know, but if I could beg your mercy-”

“Go on, then,” says Dorothea. “Beg.”

He’s aware of their audience: the children, the monks, and a completely bewildered Ferdinand who is mouthing something he’s not going to try to decipher. But he’s getting a handle on this, probably, and Dorothea’s audience can be his audience too. All it needs is a good show. He drops to one knee, and holds his hands out.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he is. “I wouldn’t ask if we had any other choice. But we’re short a healer in the backline. I’m not asking you to fight for us. But if you could help protect us, protect the _ monastery _, I would feel so much safer. You’re talented, Dorothea, so much more so than you think, and this is the only thing we can ask from you. Please, Dorothea. My life is in your hands. All of our lives might be.”

He’s looking down, thinking of Marianne, trying to radiate her desperate, miserable piety. “If you can’t, I understand. You must make protecting the children your priority. We can place our fates in the hands of the Goddess-”

“Shut up,” Dorothea says, sharply. “And get up off that floor, you’re making a scene. I won’t fight for you. I won’t lift a hand to hurt anyone, understand? But I’ll help in the backlines. For the monastery, and the Professor. Not for you.”

He stands up in a rush, and manages to play off his knee going numb as a devotional wobble. “Thank you- _ thank _ you-”

“Thank me once we’ve all survived this,” she snaps. “I’m going to the front.”

All he can do is scramble for Mira’s reins and follow. 

* * *

“Shit,” says Hilda, under her breath. “Are you sure this is just a scouting party? There’s a lot of them.” They’re meant to be gathering last minute recon, but Tessa’s perched on the roof of a not-yet-reclaimed house, and is gnawing the tiling. Marianne, mercy of the goddess incarnate, has taken Cethie on the last sweep alone.

“And see that-” Leonie says, pointing at, as far as Claude can tell, absolutely nothing. “Who brings that many heavy armour troops on a routine patrol? I know they’re all at war with the Church, but the Church hasn’t _ been _ here for five years.”

There’s a picture starting to form, somewhere behind Claude’s eyes, in a corner of his mind he doesn’t want to look at yet, and he doesn’t like it. Better play it light. “Hey, worrying about that kind of thing is my job. But if you want to be the duke, Leonie-”

“Ugh.” she says. “Forget I said anything.” She turns to wheel back to the formation, to where she’ll be holding the line with Raphael and Lorenz. Unfortunately, she’s right. There’s a lot of gleaming helmets. He knows from his own sources that Edelgard has personal retinues of heavy troops, and that they’ve played a key role in the overrunning and crushing of Fhirdiad. But these have come from the south. It’s looking a lot like they’ve been deployed for Garreg Mach in particular.

That’s a whole other problem. There’s a rustle of feathers, a brief tap of hooves, and Marianne lands Cethie perfectly on the next rooftop. “How’s it look?”

“As you thought,” she says quietly, voice barely carrying over. “It’s a full company at least, and they’ve got mages, axe troops, archers. They’ve even got a battalion of pegasi at the rear. And their commander, he’s-”

“I know. I’m working on it.” Cethie nickers, softly, and Claude pats Mira’s neck without really thinking. “Thanks, Marianne. I hereby release you from this task. Hilda, you too, go get in position. And wait for my signal!”

“What signal?” Hilda asks, but he's not really listening, trying to think one step ahead, then two, then three. Caspar has never been a natural commander, at least, and Claude's comfortably certain Edelgard hasn't spent the last five years trying to rectify that. Caspar's instinct is to run straight into trouble, arms swinging. Claude can work with that. Whatever he’s been told, whyever he’s here, Claude can work with it. He can see him, almost, in a knot of men and women bristling with axes. If they can get Caspar alone - if they can convince him to call it off - he might not even have to use it. He swings Mira back to formation.

They look at him expectantly. He’s not sure what’s coming over him, but he’s getting worryingly used to putting on a show. He clears his throat and hopes the words finish coming to him before his mouth opens. “So when I woke up this morning I didn’t expect to be here, tonight, with you, in our first official engagement with the Empire. I don’t really know what to say.”

“Stop giving a speech, then!” heckles Leonie. Ignatz looks embarrassed by proxy; Raphael gives her a friendly shove. She grins at Claude. There’s a fearlessness about her that he loves, has always loved. Leonie has never let anyone tell her how to be and what to say. He’s glad she put her own dreams on hold and came back to them. They need someone like her front and centre: undaunted, indomitable. Jerrie gleams in the golden light. He can’t help but smile back.

“But I don’t want any one of you to forget what we promised. Whether this is just the first time we fight the Empire, or the last, we’re going to do it our own way. We’re standing here, now, because we want to believe in our miracle, and we’re going to do what we can to make it come true. Even if it’s a long way off. Even if it’s hard. Like, really hard. Harder than trying to get Hilda to take her turn washing dishes.”

There’s a small ripple of laughter, mostly from Hilda herself. “You know me!” she says.

“But once we survive this, people are going to look back and say _ that’s how they did it. That’s how we made a world without war. _ A world without fighting, and killing. A world where no one else is asked to die for what they believe in. That’s what we’re here for. So… thank you. Thank you for sharing this dream. And for believing in me, and Teach, and that this rotten world can change. For the future!”

Raphael smacks his hand against his breastplate, making it ring. “For the future!” he bellows, and the Deer, predictably out of sync, join the chorus. Dorothea, at the back, catches Claude’s eye for a moment, but she doesn’t say anything, and he can’t think any more on it because at that moment he hears Caspar shouting. He’s still way back in the valley, but it sounds like _ charge!_

“Go,” says Teach, although they don’t sound like they particularly mean it. Claude sneaks a glance and their face is expressionless, completely flat. They’re starting to glow. He’s not filled with confidence, but the Empire is approaching, and he can’t worry about Teach right now.

Hilda and Marianne swoop off to the left, engaging with the first of the heavily armoured knights and a pegasus knight. She nearly falls off her mount when Tessa lunges at her, snarling. Marianne sweeps below, catching her girth with the tip of her rapier, and as her saddle plummets and the pegasi shoots free, Claude thinks for a moment that this might actually work.

He feathers another pegasus rider, catching just enough of her wings with his arrow that she spooks and pulls back out of range. Leonie follows him, catching the cavalier on his left with a shot to the arm that makes his drop his lance with a cry. Ignatz is behind her, peppering another knight with arrows that must be annoying rather than disabling, but it all gives Lysithea room to move. Thyrsus glows that strange sickly red and she sends a bolt of dark magic towards Ignatz’s target. Rather than punch through as it always has, it explodes on contact, and the knight is knocked backwards, falling to her rear. After a moment, she sits up, and touches the hole scorched through her breastplate like she’s astonished she’s still alive.

He hadn’t thought Lysithea would take their promise that seriously. But she’s right, of course. He can pontificate about it as much as he likes, but there's no substitute for action. It's not enough to not take their lives. He's got to try to save them.

Claude swings Failnaught up and over his head. “Listen up, soldiers of the Empire! We are the protectors of Garreg Mach monastery! We have no desire to fight you, but if you press us, we will do what we must! If you want to keep your lives, retreat now!”

There’s no reaction. He wasn’t really expecting one. But he’s got it out there, at least.

The fight starts in earnest. Claude finds himself dodging an awful lot of swings. He’s made himself a target, apparently, and has to focus on moving with Mira as she keeps him alive. She’s fast, far faster than someone in heavy plate, and he finds himself in a rhythm as he smacks back with a blunted axe. Dodge-dodge-swing. Dodge-dodge-swing. Like Ignatz, he’s annoying them more than doing any real harm. They’re starting to tire, at least, and one knight pulls back to remove her helmet. She’s sweaty and annoyed.

There’s shouts and banging behind him, but he has to focus on this, and now. Dodge-dodge-swing. He can hear cursing, although it’s muffled by a plate helmet. Dodge-dodge- and he’s moving into the swing, a half beat out of tempo, and the fireball sears his free arm. It hurts. It hurts a lot. His sleeve must be on fire, and it hurts, and the air is suddenly full of smell that’s hot and acrid and strange, and breathing it in hurts too. He fumbles Mira’s reins, and she nearly shakes him off as she swings wide to face the mage, dodging the second blast. 

“Claude!” Someone shouts, and the mage sprouts arrow feathers from their leg. Someone grabs Mira, and she’s fighting, suddenly, for altitude. His arm is still searingly painful. He can smell the burnt flesh beneath the wool, and it’s making his stomach turn. Mira spirals, and he holds on with his legs as best he can. He sees Teach, briefly, hitting the mage with the pommel of the Sword of the Creator. His arm is still burning. He can’t seem to breathe.

His grip weakens, and he knows that if he falls from this height, at this speed, the best he can expect is a very nice funeral. He can pull with his axe hand, but Mira will only spiral more tightly. He needs both, but his arm is so painful he can’t even think about moving it. He’s never going to eat meat again. One foot slips out of the stirrup. He wishes, for a moment, for a goddess worth believing in.

The pain goes. Then it comes back, but not as heat, as itching. It’s uncomfortable, but nothing more. He can move. He gasps as he grabs the reins and pulls them as short as he can. Mira stops short and he breathes. The air is cold. He’s so grateful. He’s so high, he can see the battlefield. That must be Teach, with that strange glow. Leonie’s down there, too. Raphael and Lorenz are still fighting. But there, way too far forward, is Dorothea. She’s looking straight at him. The glow of white magic around her dissipates. 

He slips the axe back into the sheath, and touches the scorched area on his arm. His skin is smooth, unbroken. _ Lift, and grow. _ He must thank her later. The wool flakes into ash when he brushes against it. He’s got to stop wrecking this sleeve.

He wishes he could see past the buildings, see how his plan is progressing. Nothing’s ready at this end, at least, but he can kick things off pretty quickly. He just needs to know when.

There’s a flash on the other side. Metal rings out against metal. “Claude!” Hilda bellows. “What’s the fucking signal?!”

It’s all he needs. He kicks Mira into action, flies forwards recklessly. There are at least three archers currently training their bows on him, he knows. But more importantly-

“You can’t even touch us with this many soldiers? Some general you are!”

“Okay,” Caspar says. “That's unkind. Get off that wyvern! Come and face me!”

“Hmm,” says Claude, through cupped hands, trying to make it sound like he’s genuinely considering it. “No.”

Caspar looks furious. He pushes Mira further ahead. There’s two pegasus knights at the end of the Imperial convoy who are looking very nervous, but he’ll just have to deal with them when they happen to him. It’s Caspar’s attention that he needs. Pull Caspar away, fire the signal arrow, carry the day. That’s all he needs to do.

“Hey Caspar,” he calls. “Are all the Imperial generals held to your standard, or did Edelgard think this was funny?”

"Alright,' Caspar says. "I can see now you're just trying to upset me. I'm not going to fall for it."

"That's a shame," Claude says, urging Mira lower. "I never thought you'd let something _ little _ like that get to you. You must be used to it, being… well..."

Caspar is trembling, but he's not taking the bait.

He stands up in the saddle and spreads his arms. Mira is nervous, but she settles beneath him. On guard. "You really have grown a lot. Your temper used to be so… _ short. _"

Caspar starts humming angrily.

Claude sighs. "Sorry, Mira. Looks like Caspar isn't going to come over and see you after all." He lowers his voice. "Do you think he's scared?" 

"Ok! That does it! Get ready for pain, you flying dick!!" Claude's prepared, kind of, for Caspar to rush at him. His plan hinges on it. But he's not ready for the _ speed _ at which Caspar rushes him, arms thrown backwards, gauntlets glinting in the light. He barely has time to pull the arrow he's prepared out of his quiver. The head is wrapped with rags soaked in spirits, and it stinks_. _ He strikes a spark against Mira, his hands fumbling. Caspar’s getting closer and closer. Finally the rags catch, and he can't properly line up the shot, doesn’t have time, just has to do it. He can visualise the lines of pitch, at least. He’d poured it in the cracks of the flagstones in the square, and there’s enough kindling hidden in the buildings that if he’s off - and he can’t be that far off - _ something _will catch. Ideally the Imperial army. He’s out of time. Pull. Release. Hope.

_ Thud_.

Caspar lands the first hit firmly into his gut. Claude chokes. It knocks his breath out of his chest. He's trying to steel himself, prepare for the next hit, but it never comes.

The gauntlet rings where it connects with the Sword of the Creator. They freeze in their stances, Caspar extended forwards, Teach in the block. 

Dimly, Claude hears shouts and screams. He can’t take his eyes away. Caspar is quivering, muscles trembling, locked and extended. Teach is eerily still. Claude can’t even think about where they came from. The Sword of the Creator quivers, and, with a grunt, Teach pulls the blade up and around. Caspar staggers back.

He wipes his mouth on his forearm and grins. 

“Hey professor. Didn’t know you were alive!” Teach makes a show of patting themself down, making sure each part is still there, and shrugs. _ Guess I am _, their expression says. Caspar swings his arms, loosening them. “Awesome. I didn’t think I’d get to fight you today!”

“Wait,” Claude gasps as Teach readies the sword. “Can’t we talk this out?”

“Nah,” Caspar says. “I _ really _ want to fight them.”

“Teach, come on-” They shrug again. They’re shifting stances, into the one Claude privately thinks of as _ you’re grounded. _ It’s not flashy. Teach simply spreads out their weight and braces themself in a defensive position. When their opponent strikes at them they knock them to the ground. Claude can see how the fight is going to go. Caspar, always foolhardy, will rush into it. Teach won’t even blink as they flick him up and over. They might even disarm him in the move. Caspar will be furious, will rush Teach bare handed, and if he doesn’t intervene _ now _Caspar is going to be limping back to the Empire with a serious grudge.

“One rule!” he shouts, and that gets their attention. “One rule for your duel. Whoever loses has to join the other. Teach, if you lose, you go to the Empire, ok? And if Caspar loses, he comes to join us here in Garreg Mach. Do you accept those terms?”

“Hmm,” says Caspar, flexing his fingers inside the gauntlets. “What are you going to do if I don’t?”

“Leave you to burn to death, probably.” Claude says. He’s getting his wind back, slowly but surely. The distant shouting is being drowned out by the roar of the flames. 

“Ha! Like that’ll happen!” Caspar’s still looking at Teach. Then he sniffs, and sniffs again. His eyes flick back to the main square. If Claude’s being honest, this might be one of his more impressive schemes. It’s hard to miss the flames as they consume the abandoned buildings.

“You know the saying,” Claude says, making a show of examining his burnt and tattered sleeve. “Fight fire with fire? I just took it literally.”

Caspar doesn’t look panicked but he also doesn’t look pleased. “My men-”

“-will all be spared, and their wounds tended. _ If _you accept the terms of the duel. If you don’t…” Garreg Mach’s walls are tall fireproof stone. And the Resistance has positioned themselves much, much closer to the gates.

Caspar’s face sinks. His jaw works. He frowns. “Fine,” he says. “I accept. Now buzz off and let me fight.” Claude drops him a half-bow, and Mira launches.

* * *

Things look bad in the courtyard. There’s a lot of fire. A couple of buildings are burnt back to their timbers, and a few beams have fallen, blocking pathways and scorching the ground. It’s hot. Hotter than he thought it was going to be. There’s a few Imperial soldiers sitting or standing around. Others are working with Ignatz to quell the flames. Lorenz stands in the centre of it all, prodding the chest of a mage in black.

“-As you have caused it, it falls to you put it out!”

He has his hands up in surrender. “I promise you, this was not our design-”

“Lorenz. It was me.”

He turns around like a whirlwind. “What are you-”

“I set the trap. And then I lit it on fire too.” If he was angry before, he’s furious now. Claude finds himself retreating. “In my defence, I didn’t think so many of us would still be standing here!”

“Oh, _ Claude _,” he says. “I can tell you didn’t think about this. I can tell you weren’t thinking about this at all!” Lorenz isn’t moving quickly but Claude still finds himself backing away. He’s going to walk into a burning building at this rate. 

Hilda slaps his arm. “Do you have _ any _ idea what you did? Of course you don’t! You were off over there, doing _ fuck-knows-what _, and it was so important to you that you didn’t even realise you almost killed Raphael!”

Claude’s heart sinks. “What?”

“I’m ok!” Raphael calls. He’s sitting down, off in a corner, and Lysithea and Dorothea are both standing over him. His armour has all been stripped away and his forearms have been heavily bandaged. He waves, although his face pinches with pain as he does it. Claude waves back guiltily.

“Yeah!” says Hilda. She’s red in the face, although Claude can’t tell if she’s hot or just angry. “Amazing move, Mr Tactical Genius! You set your own fucking army on fire!”

Lorenz looks embarrassed. “Hilda-”

“No,” she says. “You fucked this up, Claude. Raph tried to hold up a burning building. Leonie had to retreat because Jerrie was breathing in the smoke. And you could’ve hurt Marianne! Why didn’t you warn us?”

Now, in the moment, he doesn’t know. “I don’t know,” he says, helplessly. “I just thought-”

Lorenz puts his hand on Hilda’s shoulder. “I do understand where you’re coming from, but we really need to put the flames out.”

Teach had once said Claude had a knack for wind magic. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Please let me help.”

He ends up ferrying buckets from the pond, Mira grasping several gallons in her feet each trip. The flames get doused, but then everything smells like hot, wet wood. Leonie has come back from Garreg Mach - Jerrie stabled with a persistent cough, and Marianne and Ferdinand fussing over him - carrying blankets and most of the infirmary. It’s all shared out equally. The Imperial soldiers who are left are patched up, and they start to collect themselves, handing each other pieces of armour and weaponry. They look a little lost. The night is falling fast, and there’s no sign of their commander. There’s a moment where Claude thinks he might have bet the wrong way in his gamble; that whatever powers Teach and the Sword of the Creator had left them. Then he sees two familiar pale heads in the gloom.

“Good news,” says Teach. The strange glow from earlier has faded. They look almost like themself again. They’re leaning on Caspar, or Caspar is leaning on them, or they might just be holding each other up. “Caspar’s going to join us!”

Hilda looks delighted. Everyone else looks confused.

“Why?” says Leonie, crossing her arms.

Caspar looks thoughtful. “How did you explain it, Professor- It’s like, when there’s two guys in a fight, and you have to get in there to break it up, but they both have knives, and you can bring your own knife, and then it’s a knife fight, and it’s like, WAUGH, I’ve got a knife, _ or, _ you can go in with your fists, and that way no one’s getting stabbed, so once it’s all over you get to share a moment!”

“Is it,” Leonie says, flatly.

“Makes sense to me,” says Hilda. “Glad to have you back!”

“Glad to be back,” Caspar says. He pauses, looking around the courtyard. Some of the flagstones are still smouldering. “Wow, you guys have really done a number on this place! I’ve been missing out!”

One of the black-robed mages clears her throat. “General Bergliez-”

“Oh, yeah, you guys. Man, this is awkward. Ok, listen. I kind of made a deal, and I’m going to keep it, so I’m not going back to the Empire. But you don’t have to stay. If you want to go, then go. Just… don’t tell my dad I defected, ok?”

One of the warriors grimaces. “Of course not. Thank you for your service, Gen- former general!”

“It was all you guys,” Caspar says, earnestly. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

She snaps him a salute, and sniffs loudly. Next to Caspar, Teach shifts, clearly thinking about something.

“If you wanted to stay-” they say, blinking. “You wouldn’t be abandoning the Empire, and you wouldn’t be traitors. You’d be fulfilling your service to your Lord. I’m sure House Bergliez needs retainers.”

Some of the Imperial soldiers turn to each other, a clear question unvoiced. _ Should we? Could we? _ One of the other warriors steps forward, glaring at the mages and heavy knights who are threatening to break rank.

“We’ll think about it,” he says, and bows to Caspar. “Thank you for your service, General Bergliez. May we never meet on the field of battle.”

Caspar is actually misty-eyed as he waves goodbye. They quickly vanish into the dark. Claude is briefly uncomfortable that the remains of what had clearly been an Imperial strike force are so close to the monastery, to the people it shelters behind its walls. Yes, they’re currently more than a little worse for wear. And it didn’t look like they would rush to attack Caspar. But it’s still closer than he’d like. He’s going to have to increase the number of patrols they send out. He’s not really doing well with this whole building up resources thing.

He’s walking through the Reception Hall, idly heading towards the baths, when Caspar taps his arm.

“Sorry for what I said,” Caspar says. “You know. Earlier. It was real heat of the moment stuff. You know when your blood is up and it’s like, _ graagh _, you know, you just wanna hit a guy, but you can’t hit him, because he’s on a wyvern, so you call him a flying dick, and then a bunch of stuff gets set on fire, and you try to duel the person wielding the Sword of the Creator? What a day! Anyway. I’m sorry.” He holds out his hand for Claude to shake.

“Thanks,” Claude says. Caspar’s hand is calloused and tough. But there’s something reassuring about his grip, and he finds himself holding it just a little too long for the conventions of etiquette. “I didn’t take it personally. Let’s forget it and move on.”

“That's a shame. I rather liked it.”

Caspar pulls away. “Dorothea! I did _ not _ expect to see you here!” He gives her a hug, and she looks overwhelmed and confused and grateful all at once. “Man, you look great! I thought for sure you’d been kicked out.”

“I’ll fill you in later,” she says, smoothing down her skirts. “May I speak to Claude now?”

“Sure!” says Caspar. He doesn’t move.

“Alone?”

“Ohhhh, I get you! Ok, sure,” and Caspar gives Dorothea the most over-exaggerated wink. “I’m going to the dining hall. Come find me when you’re done. Raph says they found a new way of cooking meat!” He bounds off.

“That’s big news,” she says, deceptively conversationally.

“Not really,” Claude replies. “It’s just roasting on a skewer in the coals. Raphael’s overselling it.”

Dorothea rolls her eyes. “Of course. Recruiting your enemies into your fold, that’s nothing.”

Claude feels he’s finding his footing with her more easily, now. She’s won one from him, he’s won one from her. He rests his hands behind his neck. “Well, it’s not like we were going to kill him.”

“Really? One of Edelgard’s very own schoolmates, and an up and coming general in the Empire? Wasn’t that a little tempting? Surely his head would be a fine prize for your little resistance.”

“I don’t know if you heard, but that’s not how we’re doing things around here.”

“Oh, I heard. I just didn’t quite believe you’d be that stupid.”

He spreads his hands out wide. “Like I said, Dorothea. You don’t have to like me, or believe in me, or agree with what we have planned. You don’t even have to be part of it.”

“Oh, I don’t plan to be-”

“-but I have to thank you, all the same. When that spell hit me, I really thought- You know? Just for a moment? But you saved my life.”

Her jaw is set, teeth grinding against each other. “You can’t prove that-”

“I know. Thank you, Dorothea. I’m sure it was impossibly difficult, but we both know you did it all the same.” He winks at her. “I know we aren’t friends, but all the same, I have to ask. Care to join me in the baths?”

“I would rather die,” she says, serenely. “Actually, I would rather you die. I hope you choke and drown in them! Goodbye, Claude!”

“The offer still stands!” he calls, but she’s gone, heading off towards the dining hall. He should probably keep the Imperial defectors separate; he should probably hold a formal debrief; he should probably do a hundred thousand things that he’s not going to. He’ll draw up plans and funds for rebuilding the town tomorrow. He’ll talk through how the Empire could have found them, if they could have predicted that after five years of wandering the Knights would suddenly decide to retake Garreg Mach. He’ll have to find time to fit Caspar on the chores rota, too.

But first, a change of clothes, a bath, and bed.

He slips the letter to his mother inside his jacket almost as an afterthought. He’ll send two copies, he decides, one with his official messengers in the morning, and one with a pigeon tonight. That should answer the question he doesn’t want answering, that he doesn’t even want to ask, but can’t ignore.

Before he can think better of it, he reaches for his personal knife and adds an addendum.

* * *

He’s tipping the jug of water up to rinse his hair when Ignatz, whose vision is completely obscured by the steam, happens to say “I _ swear _I can smell citrus.”

Raphael hits Claude’s back as he coughs and splutters. “What?” Ignatz asks. “Was it something I said?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! I don't know if anyone else has this problem with this chapter, but my personal preference (Flier Emblem: One Houses) means that I'm almost at Randolph by the time the monk reaches the trigger point, and the only unit who suffers any damage from the flames is poor Raphael. The Allied units really work against the player in this game, and I don't know if that's intentional, or if Intsys just can't programme a computer player without it being a bit of a bastard.
> 
> Anyway! I'm sorry this one is a little late - my plans were delayed by, in order: a horrible cold, flooded roads, and then everyone having a bit too much to say for themselves. By way of an apology, please accept some bios of this fic's breakout original characters.
> 
> **Cethie** is Marianne's pegasus; a highly temperamental drama queen who won't let anyone else touch her, let alone ride her. But she's perfectly behaved when she wants to be.  
**Tessa** is Hilda's wyvern, who is functionally a giant flying lizard toddler who loves causing problems. She's deeply fond of Caspar and tolerates Hilda. Tessa is deeply neurotic and has a laundry list of personality issues, but after five years I don't think Hilda could even imagine ever replacing her.  
**Jerrie** is Leonie's pegasus, because Claude said "You're not naming him Jerault-" and Leonie said "of course not, that would be ridiculous, his name is Jerrie" and then had to live with it. He's stubborn and ornery, but probably a lot easier to get along with than Cethie.  
**Mira** is - of course - Claude's wyvern, and a gift from a distant cousin of his who oh-so-helpfully named her after herself. Despite maintaining that Claude treats her terribly and she's awfully hard done by, they're a good team, and she's loyal in her own way.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I WILL get back to your comments, they're deeply appreciated and kept me going through all the bits I had to write between Dorothea telling Claude to perish or Hilda saying fuck again.
> 
> Oh! One more thing! If you want updates on social media, I'm on tumblr as wizling or twitter as vvizling, because wizling was taken. I post new chapters there and any updates for my ongoing project to be the last person alive who cares about Cynthia Fire Emblem.
> 
> Next chapter: The Believer


	5. The Believer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pegasus Moon passes quickly, but there's still time to make peace with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning**: allusions to suicide and suicidal ideation from an older person.

**Pegasus Moon, 1185**

Claude visits Raphael in the infirmary every day. His arms bore the brunt of the collapsing house and Teach keeps them swaddled in thick white bandages and foul-smelling poultices. Raphael isn't convalescing, as such, but if he's not confined to bed rest until his arms heal he'll find something that needs lifting, someone who needs his help, some training that can’t wait and undo all the hard work. He tries to take it well, dictating letters to his sister that Claude dutifully scribes, but Claude can see he’s bored. Ignatz, trying to cheer him up, adds in a charcoal sketch of Raphael bracing the falling beams. He looks proud and heroic even though he’s surrounded by flames. It's very impressive. Claude’s almost sorry he missed it.

"Whoah!" says Raphael, alarmed. "You can't send that to Maya! That's way too scary!"

Claude tilts it in the light to better admire it. "Is it? I don't know, I think it's amazing."

"That'll just worry her. She doesn't need to know I've been fighting. I-" he lunges for it, and screws up the paper with Ignatz's sketch and Claude's entire morning of dictation. "There. Iggy, can you draw her something nice? Like flowers, or a big plate of food!"

The food situation isn't terrible, but it's getting there. "I'll draw her some flowers," Ignatz sighs, gathering his charcoal. They’re only a few days into Pegasus Moon, and there’s no sign yet of any life springing forth from the winter. He’s going to be looking for a reference for a while. Claude pulls out a fresh piece of paper, and starts re-writing Raphael's letter from memory.

Dorothea drops by in the afternoon with an armful of freshly laundered bandages. "Hello, Raphael," she says warmly. "Oh. Claude."

He scrambles to his feet. "Actually, Dorothea, I've been meaning to tell you something. I know you're not formally part of this-" whatever _ this _is "-but you're welcome to join the war council. If you want to."

She gives him a level, disapproving stare.

"Like I said, it’s your choice. But we all appreciate what you did, and there'll always be a spare seat next to Caspar if you want it. You have the right to make your voice heard."

She clears her throat. "I'll think about it," she says. "You can leave now. I'm going to change Raphael's bandages. Unless you desperately want to make yourself useful, in which case you can take over applying the salve."

He can already smell the ointment they’ve been smearing on the burns. Thick, greasy, and pungent, it works its way into the healer’s skin and follows them throughout the monastery. It gives Claude a headache and he's glad that even though he'd been unlucky in the battle he'd been healed quickly enough that he hadn't needed it. He nods goodbye to Raphael and books it.

He needs to be in the offices, drawing up their next budget, but the smell of that awful stuff seems to carry through the stones. Where would be better? The Cathedral would have plenty of fresh air, as it’s missing a roof. But he’d be an easy target for the monks, and there's no doubt they'd find something they wanted from him. The pier will probably be quiet, because it’s still freezing outside, but he’d trade the smell of the ointment for the smell of fish. That settles it. He heads for the greenhouse.

Inside, it’s quiet, warm and fragrant. He browses the plants, running a fingertip over their leaves. This section is medicinal. That's Teach's flower patch, bedded in with pegasus blessings. And there, at the back, are the few remaining poisons he used to cultivate. He's surprised they survived the five years, and even more surprised they've survived the greenhouse keeper. They cheer him up in some strange way. If the worst comes to the worst, and the Empire manages to starve them out, at least he can ensure anyone who tries to take Garreg Mach after them can't drink the water.

He's still in the greenhouse, humming to himself and over-trimming a weed, when Flayn taps his shoulder and he nearly cuts off his thumb. 

"I bring you good news!" she says. It's probably not that Claude has narrowly avoided becoming Fódlan's most famous nine fingered archer; but he can't tell Flayn that. She's beaming up at him. 

There was a point, once, where he had thought the most interesting thing he could do at Garreg Mach was chase the tantalising morsels of mystery around Flayn and Seteth. Then he'd happened to run into a blank faced mercenary and realised the mystery of Seteth and Flayn was like stale crumbs compared to whatever Rhea and the Church knew about their newest Professor. He still wouldn’t say no to an explanation, though. If Flayn offered.

“Hey there, Flayn. What’s happened?”

“It is most exciting! For the first time since we have returned to Garreg Mach…” she looks positively giddy with delight. “We have had post!”

“Have we?”

“To be more accurate, Claude… there is one message. For you. But I am confident this is the start of the restoration of regular contact with the rest of Fódlan!” Flayn wears passion well, and her eyes shine brightly with joy. Claude, despite himself, is charmed.

“That’s great,” he says, and means it, because the day is getting better and better. She hands him the letter ceremoniously, and watches with barely-contained glee as he splits the seal with his fingernail.

_ Dear Duke Riegan, _

_ I received your latest missive with great joy, as you well know the long bonds of friendship between our two houses. They stretch back to the founding of the Leicester Alliance and the creation of House Riegan- _

He skips ahead.

_ \- Alas, I cannot marshall troops or provide victuals in order to support your cause. I have no reason to do anything which may be seen as provoking the Empire, as you well know House Daphnel’s position and duties to maintain peace along our Northern Border. It is to my great sadness that I must suggest you enquire of other lords, such as Acheron, who may be better situated than I _

He folds the letter over, and takes another look at Flayn. She’s still beaming. “Is this it?”

“Why, I believe so. I’m sure I was only handed this one.” She tilts her head. “Why?”

“No reason,” Claude says, hoping his intuition isn’t wrong. “Is the messenger still here? I ought to thank him for coming all this way.”

Flayn looks confused, but mollified by Claude’s good manners. “She is stabling her horse, I believe, in preparation of returning to her territory.”

“Great!” Claude says, and hands her the shears. “Do you mind-”. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He can’t run to the stables, that’ll be obvious. He can’t even power walk there. He settles for a stroll and grits his teeth that no one stops him along the way.

Thankfully, the path is clear, and the only person in the stables is busy currying a sweaty-looking horse.

“Excuse me-” he calls, for the horse’s sake as much as its attendant. “Excuse me, may I ask-”

His cousin turns, and smiles. “Dipshit!” Ameera says, warmly. “I’ve just lost a bet! I had a hundred gold against Mahmoud that you’d kicked it!”

She’s speaking Almyran, of course, because why wouldn’t she? She’s only in the middle of Fódlan, where they don’t speak Almyran, and would be very suspicious of anyone who did. Why wouldn’t the Hero of House Daphnel entrust the secret coded message that only Claude is supposed to hear to the one person who can’t open her mouth without putting her foot in it?

“I’m sorry,” he says, in his most patient can-you-believe-these-foreigners Fódlan. “I didn’t quite catch that. Are you the messenger to House Daphnel?”

Ameera rolls her eyes, because this game doesn’t involve hitting anything with a stick, and is therefore far too subtle for her tastes. “Indeed, my lord. How can I help you?”

“I wish to thank you. Without your valour and discretion, we would have had no word from your liege.”

She drops a bow. “I’m just doing my duty, my lord.” Why didn’t anyone teach Ameera she should be curtsying? Did they try? Did she not care?

He acknowledges the bow with a nod, and gets a good look at her horse. Some of the sweat lather looks suspiciously like soap. He can't see into her bucket, but if there was just clean water inside it he would be extremely surprised.

"That's a fine horse," he says, conversationally. "She must have run all night."

"That she has, my lord. She's shod in Adrestian steel."

"My compliments to your farrier." Ameera smirks, and pulls out the letter she was hiding in her shirt. It's sweat-stained and creased at the edges, but there, in the wax, is the indentation of Lord Acheron's seal. It's not a perfect duplicate, of course. Claude had had to sketch it from memory, and then the silversmith had tried to correct the roughest edges. But it's convincing enough that it doesn't immediately look like correspondence from House Daphnel.

"There," Ameera says, looking smug. "That wasn't so hard. Do I have to take one back to her, or not?"

"Probably not," Claude says. He needs to get somewhere private and read it properly. He needs to write a response. Except - he probably ought to let everyone know, and get their opinions on the next course. Diplomacy was so time consuming. "Actually, I'll need to call my council to discuss this. You may leave when you feel ready."

"Awesome," says Ameera. "Lots of interesting people around here, you know. I'm going to go hit some things with my stick." And she marches off before Claude can stop her, leaving her horse soapy and shivering in the cold air.

* * *

Not only does Claude have to call an official meeting of the war council: he has to find Ferdinand first, and ask as politely as he can for Ferdinand to finish what _ she _started. Ferdinand is nobly horrified, of course, and doesn’t even expound at length on the beauty and worthiness of horses before he dashes off to the stables trailing rags and blankets. Afterwards, Claude isn't sure why he bothered; being crushed under a horse she lost interest in would probably teach Ameera a valuable lesson, if not outright kill her. Both would be an improvement.

He finds Pallardó skulking near the kitchens and in a moment of pure spite sends him to keep an eye on her and her stick game. Hopefully that’ll annoy them both. Then, proving the depths of his ingenuity and perseverance, he manages to snatch a spare moment to read over Judith's letter before announcing it to his council. It's about what he expected. Straightforward, brusque, and to the point. She's even given him a place and a deadline.

He reads it aloud at the war table. There's an expectant pause once he's done, just as there was when he arrived to find everyone else already seated. 

"Is that it?" asks Lysithea.

"It's not nothing," Claude says, feeling vaguely called upon to defend Judith's honour. "She's offering food and troops-"

Raphael's eyes light up. "She's offering food?! She must be a goddess!" Dorothea, sitting next to him, puts a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. 

“But _ we _ have to go and collect them. That doesn’t seem fair somehow,” says Hilda.

“Should we really be leaving Garreg Mach right after the Empire attacked us?” Leonie asks, resting her chin on her hand. “I mean, if I was in her position I’d definitely draw my enemies out somewhere else and then strike. Oh, don’t look so horrified. I’m just saying, that would be a smart tactical move. We’re at war!”

Seteth pinches his eyebrows together. “Indeed, we must not overlook any attempt to divide our forces. This generous offer may well be a trap-”

“It’s not.” Claude says, probably more firmly than he should. “I verified the identity of the messenger myself and there is absolutely no way she would have been compromised by the Empire.” Ameera’s entire previous experience of Fódlan was border skirmishes with Holst von Goneril. He’s not sure if she even knows what the Empire is.

“Ailell,” says Marianne, face fixed in thought. “I’m sure there’s an unpleasant legend surrounding that place.”

Ignatz lights up. “I know! The Goddess and Ailell, the Valley of Torment! Oh, what was it, what happened there…”

Hilda makes a face. “So we have to walk there, and it’s called the Valley of _ Torment _? Ugh.”

There are noises of assent, although Claude doesn’t see from whom. He’s losing control of this. He needs to get this back on track. He needs the supplies, the troops. He doesn’t want to find out what happens if he doesn’t show up.

“I know,” he says, trying to pitch his voice above the murmurs. “It doesn’t sound great. But this is our best chance to get food in before spring comes and we can start producing in Garreg Mach. Once we complete the rendezvous with House Daphnel, we’ll have enough not just for us, but for everyone who’s come to rely on the Church, and on us. Right now, we don’t have a better plan.”

“But I hear what you’re saying. Seteth and Leonie, you’re right. We’ll leave the bulk of our forces here at Garreg Mach, should anything happen while we’re gone. Marianne and Ignatz, any history or legend you could find would be really helpful. The more we know about what we’re walking into, the better. And Hilda… no excuses. Do some work.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. Everyone else looks mollified, settling back in their seats. That’s why they do this, why they have this. Every voice can be important. There are times Claude regrets his decision to govern by committee, moments when he wishes he could just bark out an order and get it done, but they’re few and far between. Hearing the perspective of others is invaluable. This is how he’s going to unite them. With patience, dignity, and respect. This project, this grand scheme, that had once seemed so daunting and impossible feels closer every day. 

“Well, I kinda hope the Empire attacks us,” says Caspar, utterly blithely, leaning back in his chair and resting his feet on the war table. “My swing’s getting tight, you know? I could use a good scrap.”

Claude smiles a tight, strangled smile, which is shortly followed by a tight, strangled headache as arguments break out all across the table. He can unite them. It’s completely possible. It just might take a little more time.

* * *

There’s a postscript in Almyran, and he waits to read it until his headache has mostly dissipated and he's alone. It says a lot about her trust in Ameera’s couriering skills, although her handwriting is bad enough that he's not sure any spymaster could actually decode it.

_ He's ready when you are. _

He settles back into the chair and starts to draw up the coming month’s chores rota. After a moment, he scrubs the 28th clear, and writes instead _ Garreg Mach _ on one side, and _ Away _ on the other.

* * *

Claude seems to blink and Pegasus Moon is nearly over. There’s a flash of Hilda’s birthday - complete with the scrappiest looking cake he’s ever seen, and her face sinking as she said _ “wow, you really shouldn’t have” _ \- and then chores, snow, snow and chores. Ferdinand officially passed his probation period, and wanted a party to celebrate but no one could find any enthusiasm for it after Hilda’s damp squib. Claude marks it by writing his name on the roster in the good ink. The kind that doesn’t run. Then he shifts snow in the corridors and shifts numbers in the ledgers until he can’t tell which aches more, his arms or his brain.

Leaving for Ailell feels like a relief, after that.

He doesn’t know the area - has never been - but knows of it. His mother hadn’t liked talking about her homeland much, but he’d been fascinated by this one part. He remembered asking her _ is there really a valley so hot even the rocks melted? _She’d been short of patience even then, chiding him for his interest and praising him for his questions in the same breath. Marianne and Ignatz have managed to find a few maps and Claude pours over them. He tells himself it’s for preparation, so he can plan a route there, a point of entry and an exit as meticulously as he can. He tries not to think about what might happen to Garreg Mach as they depart.

Once they arrive, he finds it difficult to think at all. Ailell is _ hot_. Mira is languid and lazy, unbothered by the plumes of lava and choking smoke. She's from the desert, of course. The excess of heat must be making her sleepy. He wishes he felt the same way, but instead he's suffocatingly hot, and the innermost layers of his thick flight jerkin are drenched in sweat. He kicks his legs in, and yanks as hard as he dares, and she turns slowly. Behind him, the group bearing the banner of the Crest of Flames looks. Well, if he was feeling charitable, he would say worse for wear. His undershirt is plastered to his back and the sweat is dripping all the way down his back to his unmentionables. They all look _ terrible_.

Ignatz has his glasses off and is frantically cleaning and re-cleaning them. Lysithea's skirt hem flaps in a curiously localised breeze and he's known her long enough to know she's whispering the words to a blizzard spell, her face is scrunched up with concentration. He can’t see Leonie and Caspar, waiting in reserve at the mouth of the valley, but the heat only increased as they got deeper.

His flier support - Marianne and Hilda - look little better. Marianne mostly has Cethie under control, but her hands are trembling, and every so often a new burst of heat throws up another thermal, and she wobbles in the saddle. Tessa is actually asleep, and if Hilda didn't look so cross with the situation, she probably would be as well. 

He’s envious, suddenly, of Raphael, who’d stayed at Garreg Mach to keep recuperating. Of Ferdinand, who volunteered to participate in any necessary defence, and Lorenz who’d stepped up to Claude’s second in command to lead it. He even envies Seteth and Flayn, and the knights who’d been roped into agreeing to protect the monastery. There’s no way he can’t be here, not when it’s his scheme. But he misses the snow. He’s so uncomfortably hot.

Only Teach looks cool. Which is - Teach _ always _ looks cool, in Claude's opinion, but there's something about standing so calmly in the middle of heat, and the roaring noise, and just not _ caring _ that Claude respects. This is why Teach is their figurehead. They may as well be carved out of wood for all the heat seems to be affecting them. Actually, wood might feel it more.

He should give a rallying speech, or something, but the heat is making it difficult to think. His hair is sticking to his forehead. Every part of him is damp. There’s no sign of Judith. Teach motions him down, and Mira sighs dramatically as she lands. 

Teach gestures at the lava. “It’s hot.”

“Yes?”

Teach’s face cycles through what they probably think of as emotions. To Claude, it’s more like random muscle groups twitching. Their jaw works. “This will be difficult,” they say, eventually. “It’s hot.”

“It definitely is,” says Claude, and tries not to sound patronising. “I’m going to check the valley one more time before we go down.”

“That might not be necessary.” It’s rare for Ignatz to make his voice heard in these moments, rarer still for him to stand firm under everyone’s attention. Maybe he hasn’t noticed. He’s finally finished cleaning his glasses, and is staring at the lip of the northern slope. “I think there’s already a party waiting to greet us.”

Claude can’t see their flags, not at this distance. It’s not completely out of the question that Judith would take the high ground, but she’d come from the east, or the south. The wind catches the party on the slope, and their flags are unmistakably blue. A weight settles in his chest.

“Don’t suppose you know that crest, Ignatz?”

“I- That is,-” and his glasses are off again, being buffed frantically on the lining of his coat. “It might be House Rowe?”

House Rowe. An old Faerghan house, but not so old or loyal that they didn’t immediately capitulate to the Empire after they threatened Arianrhod. Why not Edelgard’s troops? Why draw from the Kingdom? He knows she’s making incursions into Alliance territory, and Houses Gloucester and Ordelia aren’t doing as much as they could to maintain their borders. There was even a full battalion somewhere south of Garreg Mach. Surely she would enlist them first? She could hug the edges of Gloucester territory, or the mountains, and there’d be no need to involve anyone from the former Kingdom. 

Two reasonable options, then. Either Edelgard is getting desperate - after one skirmish, with no losses on her part, and an ongoing stalemate in Faerghus - or House Rowe wanted this. They aren't a border house. This isn't their territory. They've come here to intercept the Alliance.

One thing Claude is grateful for, at least, is that Edelgard hasn't found another one of his former classmates to lead this force. Caspar's absence must be striking at her war table. He's not exactly hard to miss. Claude can't think of this war as good and bad, right and wrong. It's as bloody and pointless as any other. But there is a part of him that wonders if the defection of Ferdinand, Dorothea and now Caspar is getting attention in Enbarr. 

She won’t have anyone left to fill their places. The former Blue Lions have, as far as Claude can tell, all either died or sided with Duke Fradalrius in his so-far unsuccessful suicide. He tries not to think about it.

Teach is blinking, circling their hands uselessly through the air. “Aren’t they from the Kingdom? We aren’t fighting the Kingdom.”

“Dukedom, remember,” says Claude, although there’s still a part of him thinking about the Faerghan dead. Dimitri in the Empire’s captivity. Dedue trying to free him. And his intel is out of date. There could yet be more, freezing on forgotten battlefields to satisfy some stupid war they never started. They’d been his classmates, once. “And it doesn’t matter. We’ll have to fight them now.”

Judith will be coming from the east, he’s sure. There’s no way she could have already brought the kind of troops she’s now recruiting through Gloucester territory, and his agents lost track of her once she left Derdriu. They’ll have to push back the wedge of soldiers in blue just to allow her through.

His eyes are only half on the eastern end of the valley when Teach draws the Sword of the Creator. They’re looking over to their right, watching something. Claude peers through the plumes of flame and smoke and looks so hard for whatever has caught Teach’s attention that he completely misses Ashe.

“Ah,” he says.

“Ah.” echoes Teach.

“Can you-”

“I’ll go-” says Teach, in a rush. “Lysithea, would you mind-” and she’s readying her warp, Thyrsus’s glow barely visible.

“Ignatz, watch the professor’s back! Marianne, Hilda, you’re with me!”

Ignatz nods and rushes off, Lysithea following as fast as she can. Marianne’s at his side a heartbeat later, Cethie snorting her complaints.

“Where are we- _ move_, you big stupid lizard!” Tessa yawns, but complies, and Claude can’t wait for confirmation Hilda’s at his back before he kicks Mira onwards. He needs to get to their commander. Any serious engagement in this heat will kill them before the Empire gets a chance to.

There’s a big man at the back on a heavy horse surrounded by guards. Claude doesn’t know his face, barely knows his name, but he can take cues from context. 

“Ser Gwendal of House Rowe!,” he shouts, hoping it sounds more confident than he feels. “Lay down your arms and surrender to the Alliance, and none of your men will die today!”

Ser Gwendal ignores him. His knights turn to each other, clearly talking about what they just heard. Claude can’t imagine they have a very high opinion of him. The lakes of fire crackle and burn. Claude’s arm prickles.

“You don’t have to do this!” Claude shouts, hoping his voice carries. Ser Gwendal’s horse fidgets and wheels, fighting for its head. “The Alliance is here for other business, and we have no fight with the Kingdom!”

“There is no Kingdom!” Gwendal roars. He’s a beast of a man, head-to-toe in heavy armour, and he’s mounted on the biggest warhorse Claude has ever seen. It stamps and wheels. The ground under its hooves looks ready to combust at any moment. “My liege has sworn to the Empire, and I fight in their stead! We will crush your resistance here and now!”

Claude needs to get closer. “Cover me-”, he snaps, and doesn’t wait for Marianne to finish disarming an archer or Hilda to even acknowledge it. Mira dives beautifully. Ser Gwendal’s knights don’t know how to react, breaking ranks and scattering to avoid Mira’s talons. Claude ends up exactly where he wants to be, with Mira’s talons poised to snatch at the horse’s neck, and an arrow aimed at the gap between helmet and chestplate.

Ser Gwendal has to look up at Claude, but he doesn’t startle. “If you are to kill me, then kill me,” he says. “I will only say I would have preferred a more worthy fight.”

Claude’s aim doesn’t waver. “I keep telling you, that’s not what I’m here for. Call off your men, let us pass and there will be no bloodshed today. The Alliance has no quarrel with the Kingdom.”

Ser Gwendal looks tired. “What Kingdom, boy? There is no Kingdom. We failed Lambert, and we failed his son. House Rowe did what needed to be done to save our people and save Arianrhod. The Dukedom of Faerghus is part of the Empire, now. We have Lady Cornelia and the Emperor to thank for that. Long may she reign.”

The knights around him echo it in a tired chorus. Claude doesn’t miss that several spit when they’re done, making the ground hiss and steam. He can’t imagine what it must be like for these old soldiers, cast into a strange new world while the old one sits around their necks like a noose. He needs to try a different track.

“And that’s it, then? You’d just roll over and die?” There’s a flash of anger in Gwendal’s eyes, and Claude knows he needs to keep pushing. “Even now Duke Fraldarius is mounting a resistance-”

“Duke Fraldarius is a fool! He never accepted Lambert’s death in the Tragedy, even as he insults his memory - his son’s memory - by refusing to let them rest. Look at Charon, and Galatea. Even they want nothing to do with his fool’s crusade.” Gwendal’s face softens, slightly. “Whatever we may think, this course will only lead to Fraldarius’ death, and the end of his house and lands. He may have honour, but he’s no knight.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“A true knight _ serves_, boy. To be a knight is to be your lord’s sword and shield, to do as he asks of you, and to do no more.”

“And what did Count Rowe ask of you?” Gwendal doesn’t answer. Claude is pretty sure Count Rowe is imprisoned somewhere in Fhirdiad’s dungeons. If he’s still lucky. If he isn’t, well. Cornelia’s occupation has been digging a lot of graves. “Do you know what I think?” Claude says, trying to keep his tone light and pleasant. “I think you’re a coward.”

Claude barely has time to think before the knights bristle with weaponry. Mira is faster, always faster, and she gets her talons around the horse’s neck before any of them can commit to the swing. She flexes her wings, as if to say _ the only thing stopping me from dropping them both into that lava is still aiming his bow at your boss_. There’s no way she could actually lift that horse, let alone all the armour, but it has the desired effect. The horse’s eyes go white and it breathes sharply. Foam starts to gather around its nostrils.

“A coward,” Claude says, as though no one is trying to stick a lance in his face, “always makes it someone else’s problem. A cowardly adult says _ I can’t change the world, it’s all too much, I’ll leave it to my children_. A cowardly knights says _ I know it’s wrong, but those were my orders. _ A cowardly soldier stands on the battlefield on any side! Duke Fraldarius might be a fool, but at least he’s no coward.”

Gwendal is trembling with anger. There’s sweat from the heat beading down his face. “Coward as you may think me, at least I am not trying to kill myself!”

“Are you sure?” The colour starts to drain from Gwendal’s face. “Let me guess. You haven’t heard from Count Rowe for a long time. He was a good liege, I’ve heard. Honest and fair. What would he have said, suspecting they would be your last ever instructions? Follow Cornelia’s orders, get sent to the front lines, and get some _ fool _ from any resistance to kill you so you can die with honour. I’m sure it’s better than earnestly being in her service.”

Gwendal is white. Claude feels wretched. “Ser Gwendal, you came here to die. But you can’t even admit it. I won't call you a coward. That’s beyond cowardice.”

There’s a gasp, from somewhere behind him, and the knights all turn and look. Gwendal’s shocked, then his face goes slack with horror.

“Claude,” says Ashe. “You take that back right now.” There’s the expectant whisper of a bowstring. Claude imagines it’s pulled tight. Aimed at his head. He nudges Mira with his knee, and she turns, slowly, never releasing her grip on the agonised horse. Ashe looks well. Or taller, at least. The hair and freckles are still the same. His knuckles are white with gripping the bow, and his elbow shakes with the effort of holding it taut.

Teach is behind him, frozen. Ignatz and Lysithea are in the distance chasing towards the tableau. Now that Claude’s actually looking down the arrow he doesn’t know what to say.

“Hello, Ashe,” he tries. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Take it back,” Ashe repeats. “Ser Gwendal is no coward.”

“Ashe,” Gwendal says, barely audible. “Don’t be a fool, boy, not for me-”

“Take it _ back. _” Ashe’s jaw is set in a firm line.

“Ok,” Claude says, lowering Failnaught as he encourages Mira to keep hold of the horse. “I take it back. Ser Gwendal is not a coward. He is a knight.”

Ashe’s arm trembles, then relaxes. The bow drops, and with inhuman speed Teach has taken it, secreted it away. They wrap an arm around Ashe’s shoulders, and he sags into their side. He’s crying.

“Ashe,” Ser Gwendal says, softly, kindly. “You’ve been an excellent squire, and soon, you’ll be an excellent knight. I was honoured that you came into House Rowe’s service. You were a credit to Lonato. Anyone can see that.” He holsters his axe, carefully. Claude pulls back on Mira’s reins. _ Let go. _It takes a moment, but she releases her grip on the horse’s neck, and it steps backwards, eyes wide and sides heaving. There’s a thin trickle of blood from the puncture marks.

Gwendal dismounts, slowly and carefully. He’s a big man in armour, and the ground is rough. He walks over to Ashe. Ashe chokes on a sob.

“I am proud,” Gwendal says, slowly, “to call you my squire. You understand what a knight should be. But this man-” and Claude doesn’t qualify for _ your friend? _ “-is not so wrong as you may think. It is true. I am a coward, and I came here to die. I am sorry.”

Ashe hiccups on his sob. “You don’t- you didn’t-”

“I thought if I could die in service, I would be fulfilling my oath. That I would pass with honour. That Count Rowe and King Lambert would understand, and forgive me.” He lifts his hand, and rests it atop Ashe’s head. “I could not, however, forgive myself.”

Claude breathes carefully and tries to think. There’s something he can say and do, here and now, to resolve this. It just needs the right words.

“I know,” says Ashe, quietly. “I wish it wasn’t true, but…”

Teach cocks their head to one side. Despite the disappearance of the bow, they look almost human. They’re certainly more grounded than they’ve been for a while. “Why not live?”

Even Ashe turns to stare at them, big round tears rolling down his face. “Why not live,” Teach repeats. “The only person who would benefit from seeing you dead is the Imperial occupation of Faerghus. So why not live? Why give them what they want?”

Gwendal looks away. “I swore an oath-”

“-to Count Rowe,” Claude finishes. “And to Faerghus. Are you really abandoning them now? When they need you most? And Ashe, I don’t know what you want to do either. You can come with us, or you can go join Duke Fraldarius, or you can stay here, with him. But we won’t kill you just so you can die with honour.” Teach nods emphatically.

“I cannot decide-” Gwendal mutters, still unable to look at them.

“Then don’t,” Claude says. “Take time. Whatever you need to do, you can do it. You can even come back here and jump in the lava if that’s really what you want.”

A bubble roils at the surface of a pool and pops. It spits out a glowing drop which lands on Teach’s boot with a sizzle. “Let’s go back to Garreg Mach,” says Teach, firmly. “I don’t like it here.”

Ashe wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “I’ll come,” he says, sniffing loudly. “Ser Gwendal-”

“Go,” he says, almost fondly. “Perhaps one day I shall see you there.”

Ashe’s face brightens. “I’ll look forward to it, sir!”

Gwendal remounts, and calls his knights to him. They seem well enough, albeit very confused that the battle’s over so quickly and with so little fighting. Ashe waves as they head back over the northern lip of the valley. Claude can’t say for certain that they didn’t wave back.

There’s a hiss, and Hilda lands next to him. She’s red in the face. Tessa doesn't look much better. “Claude-” she snaps, “I have no idea what’s going on, but there’s a whole bunch of soldiers over there, and wagons and shit _sorry professor_ and they’re asking for you-”

“Can you ask them to follow us?” Claude asks as sweetly as he can. “We’re actually just leaving.”

“Yes,” says Teach, gaze now fixed somewhere else on the horizon. They still have an arm around Ashe. “It’s too hot.”

* * *

He bids everyone a hasty goodbye as they decamp back at Garreg Mach, ignoring Judith’s calls for him to offer a formal reception, and hurries up to his room. He needs to change, badly. The smell of his sweat must be permeating through the stone. 

There’s a new plant cutting in his room and he takes a moment to admire it. It looks a lot like the weed he nearly killed earlier in the month but evened out and neatened. There’s a note beside it, written on what looks like scrap paper.

_ Deare Claude _ , it reads, in calligraphy so perfect it's almost unreadable. _ Pleafe find thif Gift as a token of my Moft Sincere appreciation for our Friendfhip. As I was Contributing what I could by Afsifting in the Greenhoufe, it Occurred to me that you had afked me to Nurture this weed as a way of prompting my Solemn Reflection on the nature of thingf. I found myfelf wondering Why the Goddefs had made Weedf alongfide the Many other kinds of plantf which are more Beneficial to Maintaining Health, or Simply beautiful to obferve. It then came to me that the Goddefs did not make “Weedf”, but Rather all plantf. Thus it is perhapf a human Affectation to call Some plantf useful, and fome Mere weedf. In truth, we are all Equal in the eyef of the Goddefs, although we Label fome of our fellowf Ufeful and fome weedf. I Saw this Reflected in your propofed conduct of the Campaign againft the Empire, demonftrating Great Forethought and LeaderShip. _

_ I must admit it has been fome Time fince I truly reflected on the Benevolence and Truthf of the Goddefs, and thif Struck me af an Elegant and well-timed lesson. I thank you most whole-heartedly for taking the time to Facilitate thif for me, and thought perhapf you might alfo enjoy having thif prompt for your own Mufings, or Simply a Reminder that the Goddefs fees no "Weeds" in her "Gardens". _

_ Yours in Friendfhip, _ _  
_ _ Flayn _

He certainly hadn’t meant to do anything of the sort, but it’s sweet of her to follow it up. It’s a handsome plant, too, leafy and green. Some plants can’t thrive beyond the greenhouse, but this one looks tough. He’ll name it later. After his bath.

He throws Flayn’s letter on the embers almost as an afterthought. He’s so used to destroying correspondence for safety’s sake that by the time he realises he should keep it the edges are getting charred. He scrambles for it, shaking out the tiny flame that had caught on one corner. Flayn’s letter, strangely, is unreadable. It’s covered by brown writing in a different hand, one Claude doesn’t recognise, spidery and sharp. He knows the hands of each of the Deer - all the former Deer, in fact - due to the couple of months he’d spent cribbing every single certification exam as a personal challenge. Teach hadn’t caught him until he’d turned in the same failing mark as Caspar, and even then he’d only been asked to try to apply himself. No, this, this is someone who has never been in his class nor his employment.

As the heat fades and the page crisps, Claude realises he knows exactly what this is and why it’s in Garreg Mach. He swallows thickly, feeling his heart sink down to his stomach.

* * *

He doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to, shouldn't have to, it isn't fair- but he knocks on Dorothea's door anyway. 

"Come in," she calls, and then, when she sees him, with palpable disappointment. "Oh, Claude. It's you." He settles himself against the doorframe as she finishes what she's writing at the desk.

"I'll admit," she says, not looking at him. "I didn't think you were the type of noble to let himself into a common girl's room at night. I'm a little disappointed."

"Really? Dorothea, what do you think I'm here for?"

"Instead of playing games, why don't you just tell me, hmm? What do you want, Claude?"

"Just interested in what you're writing, that's all."

"I'm responding to a letter," she says, in arched tones. "From a gentleman who claims that since seeing me on the stage with the Mittelfrank company, he cannot know peace until I am by his side. He even sent a ring. Look!"

It's a gaudy thing. A heavy band of silver is crowned with a large red stone Claude suspects is highly polished glass. The stone is set into a ring of burnished brass, and Claude knows that if he were to slide his fingers around it, it would move. He's furious, suddenly, that he was right, and that she's making it so easy for him.

"Some suitor he is, sending his bride to-be such a cheap gift."

"Indeed," Dorothea says, her quill pen still moving. "Which is why I'm letting him know that I sadly must decline."

"A pity," Claude says, and means it. "That's an interesting man who gives a decoder ring for a betrothal." The scratching stops. 

"I don't know what you mean," Dorothea says, carefully.

"I don't see Count von Vestra as a Mittelfrank fan myself, but you must know him a little better than I do."

"Claude," Dorothea says. She's very calm. "Are you accusing me of something?"

"Not yet," he says. "I'd love to read that letter from him, though."

She snatches it up, and hands it over. "I have nothing to hide from you."

He scans it. It is, as he expected, heavily coded and nothing is obviously written in a cipher for which she'd need the ring. Wherever the cipher is, then, it must be an instruction on which code to use, breaking the means to interpret the message into two parts. He almost admires Hubert. But for all his brilliance, he's just a man - and there, at the end of the letter, Claude finds what he needs.

He reads it aloud. "I ache for you, beloved, and cannot sleep for wishing you were by my side. I curse this war which has torn you from my grasp, and would do anything in my power to bring you home once more. Alas, I am but a man, and can only endure this terrible suffering until the day we reunite. With all my heart, I am forever yours.”

“You see?” Dorothea says. “He’s besotted with me, the poor fellow. You know, it’s unbecoming to be so paranoid. A little trust would go a long way, Claude.”

He pulls the paper he found - that Flayn found - earlier from his pocket. “Interesting, then, that you’re so bombarded with letters when I know for certain we’ve had no correspondence for weeks.” He holds up his hand, showing her the paper, stalling her objections. “But I’m not done. According to this, in a B1 ‘_ I ache for you’ _ means ‘ _ we are preparing cavalry’ _ , but in a B2 it’s _ ‘we are readying a direct assault. _ ’ Given the circumstances, I’d say a B2 looks more likely. So let’s see… _ We are readying a direct assault. We require enemy numbers. We have suffered significant losses. The next engagement will be in enemy territory. _ What do you think, Dorothea? That certainly looks like communication with a spy to me.”

She tilts her head, and the pride in her eyes would put any noble lady to shame. “I think,” she says, and she’s a magnificent actress, even now - “that you’ve prepared that paper to frame me. I’ve never heard of any of that before.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Claude agrees. “And let’s be clear. It’s definitely not written by your hand. I’d never be able to convince Seteth that it was you just with this. The ring? The ring is suspicious, sure, but you’ve got quite the collection of costume jewellery. And your conduct is impeccable. I’m certain you’ve been the very model of piety and devotion since you came back. Even the timing of the letter - I’m sure you could have brought it with you from Enbarr, and it’s simply your duties to the children that have prevented you from responding in time. Altogether, it’s a very weak case.”

Her shoulders relax a little. That’s her mistake. She’s too keen to win and see it over. If they were dogs, she would be a graceful, leggy hound with no heart for the hunt, only running as far as the scent will take her. Claude would be a terrier. He can’t stop until his jaws close around his prize. “But if I were to plant this in _ Ferdinand’s _room-”

“-He’ll kill you.”

“Perhaps he can deliver his love letters at the same time, then.”

Dorothea’s eyes flash wide as she realises. Claude tastes blood, and feels sick. “That’s it, then,” she says, with only the slightest tremble. “You’re going to arrest me. What will the charges be? Espionage, surely. Collusion with a hostile foreign power. Perhaps you’ll find I’ve been selling state secrets, although I didn’t know any in the first place.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

She laughs. “Well, here you go! My life in your hands. I’m sure you’ve always wanted this, after I’ve been such a thorn in your side. Is it thrilling? Does it make you feel good?”

It feels terrible. He swallows, his tongue thick in his mouth. “Honestly, it feels terrible.”

Her eyes flutter closed. “How long have you known?”

“I had my doubts for a while, but… Dorothea, I didn’t _ want _ to be right about this.”

She doesn’t answer for a long time, stretching herself out in her chair and turning to face the window. The first stars are starting to rise; it’s nearly Lone Moon, after all, and the days are starting to get a fraction longer. “I suppose you’ll want to know why.”

“Dorothea, I-”

“Do you know what she wants? The kind of world she’s trying to build? She wants to be free of crests and nobility.” He’s silent. “Can you even imagine it? A world where people rise and fall on their own merits?” Her words hang in the air. How strange. What odd fortune that Claude and the bloodstained Emperor aren’t so different after all.

“I’ve seen it.” Telling the truth feels like he’s trying to swallow a mace. It scratches his throat to shreds and leaves a lump in his chest. “Dorothea, I promise you, that world already exists. It’s just beyond Fódlan’s walls. And I don’t mean it literally,” although he kind of does mean it literally, “but beyond the walls people build between themselves. The wall of _ I’m a noble, so I can’t ever respect a commoner _ , and _ I’m a commoner, so I have to do what I’m told. _ People aren’t able to imagine it because they’re blinkered, and they’re told that the only world which exists is in that narrow strip they see. But there’s so much more. I want to-”

He’s trembling, he realises. And babbling. He must sound insane. This grand scheme, his vision of his new dawn, it feels fragile now he’s spoken it aloud. Like it’s built out of scraps and twigs and feathers. It had all sounded so convincing in his head.

“You want things to change,” Dorothea says, quietly.

“What I want doesn’t come into it. Things _ will _ change. This system is broken, and someone will come to change it. And if it’s not her, I suppose it’s me. But I can’t walk that path of blood. I have to do things my way. And if it takes longer- if it’s harder-”

“Will it be worth it?”

“It has to be.”

She’s quiet, again. “You know, if this is to be my trial, I think you should have all the evidence.” He’s not sure what he missed. She rolls her eyes. “Just read my letter, Claude.” She thrusts it at him, making him fumble, and he nearly drops it on the floor. The ink glistens - she was writing it when he entered, after all.

_ Dear Hubie, _

_ I can’t do this anymore. I can’t sit back as people die for her, in her name, for nothing. Hubie, there’s another way. And <strike>I </strike>_<strike> _ want to _</strike> _ I need to follow it. I won’t ever hurt her, you know that. But this will be my last letter to you, in this or any other capacity. _

_ Forever your friend, _

Claude’s throat feels tight. His tongue is heavy in his mouth. “You know I can’t believe this.”

A gentle incline of her head and her hair parts like an auburn waterfall. Her neck is impossibly slender and smooth. “I know.”

“I can’t - Dorothea, if this gets out-”

“I know,” she says again, sadly. 

She’s given him a dagger, and asked him to hold it at her throat. Claude’s mind races. There must be something. He can’t turn back time, rewind the evening, never confront her, never find out the truth. He has to keep moving forwards. Can he really live with this? Can he sign her death warrant: if not at his hands, then by the Empire’s? He waits for the strike of brilliance that’s sure to come. Any moment now.

Dorothea sighs. “Just clap me in irons and get it over with.”

He rubs his eyes. There must still be ash and soot in his hair and it flakes out when his head moves. It falls onto the carpet like old grey snow, well trodden and tainted with mud. “Give me a minute, ok? I'm trying to decide how you weren’t an Empire spy feeding all of our decisions and movements back to Hubert von Vestra.”

Dorothea rolls her elegant eyes. Claude ignores her.

He starts to pace. “What if, what if you've been on our side all along? We were classmates, after all. Would it be so strange if, on returning to the Empire, you stayed in contact with some old school friends? Like your house leader? After all, it's not a secret that you transferred into the Golden Deer. Perhaps some time ago, we became friends."

Dorothea laughs bitterly. "Friends?"

"Friendly enough that when you felt unsafe at Edelgard's side, you thought you would come here. The children were just your excuse. And maybe they put pressure on you, to send intelligence to help their war effort, but you came to me _ immediately _ and together, we-"

"That's almost the truth."

The best lies are. "If he, if there's any retaliation from von Vestra, then I can stand with you and say that I knew, and of course I knew, and you've been telling me far more than you've been telling him, and_ they'll believe it. _"

"You'd risk your neck? For me?"

He stops pacing. "Yes."

"You're a fool."

"Probably."

"You understand that this is impossible, that this will never work, that you can't just change the world by making a pretty speech- I, Claude, what's to stop me throwing this letter in the fire and telling Enbarr everything you've just told me? Hells, what's to stop me changing my mind at any time?"

"You.” He clears his throat. “It's your choice. I can't force you one way or the other, even if I think one way is right and one is wrong. You make your choice, Dorothea. But that's what I can offer you. Be part of a new world, one that we're trying to shape to fit the needs of everyone who's going to live in it. Tear down the walls. Or don't." The lump in his throat is lifting. Here it is. All of it. Said aloud and made real for the very first time. She can take it, or she can go.

Dorothea crosses and uncrosses her legs, the silk of her skirts rustling with every movement. He keeps hold of the letter, afraid that if he leaves them unoccupied his hands will find their way to the tassels on his sash again. Finally, after a long tense minute of his heart thumping against his ribs, she sighs.

“You’d better talk me through your story one more time. And then,” and her face lightens, and there’s a treacherous moment where Claude thinks she could even rival Marianne in her beauty. “The baths, I think. As quickly as you can. You _ stink. _”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies to anyone who knows the rules of using the medial s better than I do, because I only looked them up AFTER I'd hit post. 
> 
> I forgot my thank-yous last time, so quick lightning round: to Mae, to Birds, to Harry, to everyone else who's cheering me on: thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for this one too.
> 
> Quite a big chapter, unfortunately, but hopefully the next will be a little shorter. I'm starting to realise I say that every time. We break the Black Eagles streak! Finally! Also, I didn't have to play too much of the most dangerous game which is also called _Who Knows More About Lava: Nintendo Owned Game Development Company Intelligent Systems Co. Ltd, Or Me?_
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! This chapter is the end of a little mini-arc in this story, and the next should be more of an interlude without much Big Plot Stuff, but then it all kicks off again after. Frankly, I can't wait.
> 
> As always if you want social media updates you can find them at wizling on tumblr and vvizling on twitter.
> 
> Next chapter: The Ingrate


	6. The Ingrate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude suffers from a self-inflicted injury on boy's night.

**Lone Moon, 1185**

He wakes with a crick in his neck and a strange feeling of lightness in his chest. All the little things that had been bothering him over the weeks, the little questions Dorothea asked that he couldn't quite square away had been put to rest. Of course, now he's told her even more if she ever does decide to use it against him. But he thinks he could find peace with that. He's done all he can for her, after all. And even if she just does nothing, he knows he's got an ally against von Vestra. The enemy of his enemy being his friend and all that. He's plucked a pretty string from his bow at the very least.

He feels confident, strangely confident. Bit by bit, people are coming together. His _ plan _ is coming together. They’re whittling away what they can of the Empire, and whichever Faerghans haven’t died yet are more amenable than he’d dared dream. Maybe it’s Teach. Maybe it’s the natural result of five years of bloody war. Maybe it’s their miracle.

There’s fingers of sunlight creeping through his window, and he feels energised, going so far as to bounce out of bed. His flight suit is still filthy, but he can help launder it later. If the Empire didn’t attack when they were away, they definitely won’t attack now that they've brought in new defences and reinforcements. So he’s free to dress for the weather, and the hours he’ll spend sitting on a hard chair filling in paperwork. It feels fantastic. He might even have time to shave.

He’s just collected the heated water and lathered up his face, humming the whole time. His straight razor gleams. As he lifts it up into place, watching his reflection in the mirror, he pauses to think. He could lose the beard. Certainly no one has gone out of their way to tell him they like it. As far as experiments go, it's not a great success. All he'd have to do is place the razor like this, and slide-

_ Bang_.

Duke Claude von Riegan, not five years the leader of the Leicester Alliance, nearly ends his tenure then and there. Miraculously, the razor falls away and not straight down. It only manages to slice open his thigh and ruin his most comfortable pair of breeches.

"If you're not out in two minutes, I'm coming in!" the Hero of House Daphnel roars through the doorway.

Claude looks into the washbowl and thinks about the likelihood of him drowning. It doesn't take as much as people think. Just enough to submerge the mouth and nose. His reflection looks back at him pathetically. If he can keep this up, and she sees him looking so sad, so forlorn… He sighs, and looks for something to stem the blood.

* * *

Judith looks thunderously angry when he appears, face still wet and a cravat he never really liked stuffed down the side of his breeches.

"Where's your office?" she snaps, and before he can answer she's marching off towards the Cathedral. 

"Not that way," Claude calls, although he's not averse to another few minutes without her wrath. "Just follow me-" and he sets off at his fastest and most dignified limp. He hasn't prepared a distress signal he can set off from his office, he realises. This is a terrible oversight. Maybe if it sounds enough like he's dying someone will overhear and intervene.

Judith closes the door behind her, and after a moment, clicks the bolt. Great. Excellent. She's breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. Claude hopes his don't do that when he's angry. It seems like an obvious tell. Beyond that, she looks absolutely fine, and much the same as when he'd left her in Derdriu just a few months ago. Her eyes flick over him. 

"What happened to your leg?" she asks, almost softly, although he can hear the undercurrent of _ I'm still very cross with you _. "My scouts said there wasn't much fighting in Ailell."

"Your scouts were right. This was-" he pauses. "-an unrelated incident." That seems diplomatic enough. With luck she'll quickly lose interest.

"You look well," she says. "I half expected you to be skin and bones from that letter you sent."

"Ah, the benefits of paperwork. Uh, not that I've been slacking on my training-"

As usual, she ignores him. "You still have that beard, though. I thought you were going to shave it off. No matter. I can find you a good valet. Your grandfather used to have three, one of whom just shaved and bathed him. That's how a Duke lives."

"I told you, I'm not really into that kind of pomp and circumstance-"

"And people expect certain things from you, certain appearances. There's a lot of talk that you're missing important social occasions in Derdriu. People are starting to question your commitment to the Alliance-"

"-what, because I didn't want to go to Lady Albany's ugly niece's gaudy wedding-"

"No," Judith snaps, her eyes narrowing. "Because you're holed up in this miserable shithole fighting a pointless war. I forgot, you're not even fighting back. You're holed up in this miserable shithole doing absolutely nothing but squander time and resources the Alliance can sorely miss, and for what? For the fucking church? Don't give me that shit. What's happened to you?'

"Nothing's _ happened _ to me! I made this choice and I wanted this-"

"You don't get to want things! You don't get to just _ make choices _! You are the leader of the Alliance, not some spoiled child-" She catches herself mid-shout, and shakes her head. "No. You are a man grown. But there are people relying on you."

"Like my classmates, and the monks-"

"-And the whole Alliance. When you make a choice, you make the choice that benefits the Alliance. When you want something, you want something that benefits the Alliance. That's what it means to lead." She doesn't slump - Judith von Daphnel has never slumped in her life - but she leans back against the door with a short sharp sigh. "Maybe you're just not ready."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" He is aware it must sound petulant. That's accurate, at least. That's how he feels.

She rechecks the bolt, but of course it's still locked. He can't help but flinch as she steps away from the door, towards him. She sighs again and cups his cheek in her hand.

"You've always been this way. You wanted to run before you could walk, and fly before you could run." She tilts his head up, but he can't meet her eyes. "I've tried- _ we've _ tried- to never hold you back. When you wanted freedom, we gave you freedom. When you wanted space, we gave you space. Maybe that was a mistake."

It's been a long time since Claude felt so small and useless. He feels his face get hotter and hotter until it burns, blood razing his skin. Judith tilts his head again, until he can't not look at her.

Her eyes are almost sad. "You're so like me," she says, softly. "And I always wanted to give you everything I could never have for myself. That's all I've ever wanted, B-"

"No." He feels his teeth clench: it's far more forceful than he meant to say it. "Not now. Not here." Not ever, he wants to say. _ I’m not the person you want me to be. _

She moves her hand along his jaw, holding him gently. "Alright. Not here, and not now. But someday. When you come home."

_ Home? _ He wriggles out of her grip, his shame and embarrassment melting into resolve. "I have my own life to lead."

"I know," she says. "And Goddess knows I can’t stop you. But is it too much to let your mother worry about you once in a while?"

He retreats back to his desk. He's far safer there, with the wood and artifice between them. "Careful," he says, reaching behind for his ugly, painful chair. "People might overhear and start thinking the mighty Hero of House Daphnel has, I don't know, feelings." His leg stops aching as he sits, and he tries to smother the feeling of relief before she can read too much into it. He should probably get someone to look at it. The cravat, damp under his fingers, is starting to show tiny pinpricks of red.

Judith almost smiles, which means that one half of her mouth quirks upwards, and the rest of her face is stonily still. "They'll think I must be getting soft in my old age. That'll be the only reason why I didn't immediately beat this nonsense out of you."

His veins still thrum with tension, but the atmosphere feels lighter. Whatever Judith had to say to him, she's clearly said it, and is ready to move on, ever businesslike. He makes his eyes go wide. "Assaulting your liege, the leader of the Alliance? What would people say?"

"Hmm," she says, tapping her chin with a finger. "Something like, _ why didn't she do it sooner?" _ She's definitely smiling now, and the hint of her dimples have come out in her cheeks. 

There's a moment that stretches out comfortably. They haven't been able to talk like this since, well. Claude doesn't want to think about that. "Pleasant as this has been," he says, loathe to break it. "I'm guessing that you didn't come here just to scold me."

"Astute as always. My convoy seems to have picked up a particularly annoying stray along the way. I believe you might know him?"

Claude's heart sinks. "Please don't tell me it's-"

* * *

"-Sylvain!"

Sylvain turns around, carefully nonchalant, like it's nothing that he's in Garreg Mach's Reception Hall after dropping off the face of the known world. "Oh, Claude," he says, starting to frown. "Can you give me a minute? I'm kind of busy here."

“No,” Claude says. This does not look like it’s going to go well.

Sylvain ignores him. “I know you’ve heard of me. Gautier crest? Gautier fortune? Handsome to boot? I’m sure you want a piece of me, little kitten.”

The nun he's cornered looks ready to pull out a knife and stab him, which would give her a piece in a strictly literal sense. Claude is tempted to let her. He grits his teeth. "_ Now _, Sylvain." He tries to imbue the words with every ounce of repressed rage he’s ever felt in his life. It’s surprisingly easy.

"Yeesh, alright. Apologies, gorgeous, but duty calls." He blows her a kiss, and she spits on his shoes. As soon as Sylvain turns towards Claude, she bolts. Claude wishes he could too.

"So you're alive," he says, trying not to slip and say _ and my mother made a formal complaint about you because when she caught you sneaking into her baggage train, you hit on her. _

Sylvain puts his arms up and behind his head, looking absolutely carefree. "Guess I am," he says. He doesn't sound particularly pleased about it. "Whoah, what happened to your leg?"

Claude spares a glance. Oh, it really doesn't look good. The cravat is definitely ruined, and the big red splotch is unmistakably blood. He stops. Pauses. Recalculates. Smiles.

“Let’s go somewhere a bit more private.”

He loves his office. He loves his desk, imposing and grand. He loves his chair that throws up splinters in the most delicate places as he tries to focus on calculating new customs duties for Derdriu. He loves his door! It locks! There are so many reasons why his office is an excellent place to do things like interrogate a man who may have been dead for the last two months. That is, of course, why he’s in the infirmary instead.

Sylvain stretches out a bandage, trying to eyeball the length he’d need for Claude’s leg. It’s painful to watch. He stretches out a bit more of the fabric, and closes one eye, frowning. 

“Are you ever going to put that on?”

“Don’t be so impatient,” Sylvain says. “If I’ve learned one thing on the battlefield, it’s that you only get one chance to save a life.”

“Mine isn’t in danger. Look, just give it here-”

“No.” Sylvain winds out another inch of the bandage, stares at Claude’s leg, and winds it in again.

Claude’s leg throbs. There’s a pulse of some tight pain behind his eyes. “I guess I don’t have to ask why you decided to come back, at least. How much did Edelgard offer you to annoy me to death?”

Sylvain snorts, and then drops the bandage. “Oh,” he says, rummaging frantically at his belt. “Right, I forgot-”

The bandage isn’t in reach for Claude to kick it up and into his lap. He glares at it mournfully, as though that’d make it move and get this over with. Isn’t there something he could do to extend his reach? Somewhere, he knows he has an arrow with a rope tied to the end of it, but Failnaught is carefully unstrung in storage. Maybe he’ll develop a knack for magic, and call it over with his mind. He screws his eyes shut and holds out his hands to aid the exercise, thinking _ lift, lift _.

To his surprise, something lands in his lap. He can’t open his eyes for a moment, convinced he’s actually done it, picturing what Teach will say, how outraged Lysithea will be. Then the smell hits him.

“Yeah,” says Sylvain, with obvious pleasure. “That’s a premium Gautier cheese. For the professor, actually. But you can have it."

It smells like wet rot. It smells like dirty boot feet on a dead body. It smells repulsive, and Claude doesn't want to touch it. "Thanks," he says, trying to breathe through his mouth. 

"Oh, no worries. It was Rodrigue- Uh. Duke Fradalrius' idea. He thought we should bring some kind of peace offering with the official treaty. Post-haste, obviously, hence yours truly being put on the case."

_ Peace offering? _ "Treaty?"

"Yeah, well, you know. We're fighting the Empire's occupation forces, you're…" Sylvain trails off, looking confused. "Actually, I have no idea what you're doing. But you're here, right, so presumably the Church is aware of it. Anyway! Enemy of my enemy, and all that."

Claude's heart pounds, and the cravat around his leg seems to pulse. The only chance he has of making his miracle happen is to maintain control. He can't commit until the moment is right. He can't involve the roundtable until they're all out of other options. He needs intelligence, information, everything he can glean about Edelgard's goals and plans and habits if he and the Deer are going to survive this, let alone come out at the other end smiling. Every political move he makes needs to be planned with precision on a Fódlan wide scale. "The Alliance isn't at war with the Empire," he says, carefully. "I know things are difficult in Faerghus, but the Alliance is still neutral-"

"_T__echnically _ neutral. And that doesn't change the fact that you're still here, Mr Big Shot von Riegan. And that chick with the caravan-"

Claude's head throbs. "Lady Judith von Daphnel?"

"Yeah, yeah, her. She's a beauty, huh? I always thought the prettiest flowers had the sharpest thorns. And wow, are they sharp! I nearly lost my- anyway. She's some Alliance noble, right? But she's here, working with you."

"She's my retainer." Claude feels strangely distant. It's like he doesn't want to be present for this conversation. Is his spirit leaving his body? Could he tell? Nothing Sylvain is saying seems to connect and make sense.

Sylvain whistles, long and low. "Lucky you. Now, don't get me wrong, a modest girl has her own charms, but there's something about a real firebrand-"

"Please stop talking."

"Yeesh, alright. Never thought you'd be the jealous type. Where was I- oh, yeah, the treaty-" he finds a crumpled piece of paper in his waist belt, and thrusts it at Claude triumphantly. It might have been sealed into a scroll once. It definitely isn't now.

Claude scans it while Sylvain searches the floor, hopefully for the bandage. Usual pleasantries and legalities - _ we The True Defenders of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Hereby propose a Unification of Strength and Purpose henceforwards defined as all Military Capabilities including infantry troops, cavalry troops, flying troops, machines and weapons of war including siege engines, defensive installations including _ \- and is certainly comprehensive. There, at the bottom, is Duke Fraldarius' official sign and seal, and far more interestingly, a date. "Sylvain," Claude says. "This was signed a month and a half ago."

Sylvain scratches his head. "No it wasn't."

"Guardian Moon, day 16," Claude reads.

"Yeah, and?"

"It's Lone Moon," Claude says, feeling faintly ridiculous.

"No, it isn't."

"Yes it is! And where's that-"

The door slams open. "Oh, good, you're here," says Leonie, brisk and cheerful in equal parts. "Lady Judith's called a war meeting."

She looks at Claude, at his leg, at the blood. She looks at Sylvain on the floor, slack-jawed and staring at her. She flicks her ponytail over her shoulder, and sighs. 

"Come on. I'll help you walk."

Claude grabs the bandage as he stands.

"Should I-" Sylvain asks, voice wavering.

Claude and Leonie answer at the same time. "No_. _"

* * *

Judith's at the head of the table, in Teach's spot, the chalkboard pulled forwards beside her. She's got her rapier out, which is never a good sign. "Late!" she barks, and points at one of the awkward chairs on the corner, which never have any room to get properly comfortable and spread. Claude thinks as many unpleasant words as he can as he takes it. _ Gautier cheese. Ailell. Vestra. _

"It seems I have to repeat myself for the benefit of those now present. The ambush at Ailell proves to me that there is an Empire spy somewhere in the inner councils, and I have already agreed with Shamir-" who appears out of the shadows to nod at her, then melts back into them. "-That we must pursue any means necessary to expose and eradicate them."

Dorothea stiffens, although Claude isn't sure he would have seen it if he hadn't known what to look for. She doesn't turn towards him even in the slightest, doesn't give any indication that anything at all happened between them last night. She's good at this.

Shamir clears her throat. "I've begun investigations. I have some leads."

Shamir’s investigations involve a knife, a black bag, and a dark room. He can’t let it come to that. Before he can stop himself, Claude is lazily raising his hand and leaning back, trying to radiate a sense of ease he really doesn't feel. "That," he announces, in his best Duke Riegan At The War Table voice, "won't be necessary. The situation is in hand."

They turn to him. Hilda looks shocked; no one else seems particularly bothered. Dorothea allows herself an eyeroll, as though she's thinking _ oh Goddess, here he goes again _. 

"Explain," says Shamir, crossing her arms.

"Of course," says Claude, wishing he could. "Since I’ve known about it all along. Actually, as soon as the spy arrived at Garreg Mach, they came to me privately and explained. We’ve actually been working together to feed the Empire false information-”

“The first attack?”

“We’d prepared a fire trap.” He pauses, to look around judgmentally, trying to keep his eyebrows arched. “Which, by the way, you _ all _ saw in action.”

“Ailell,” snaps Shamir.

“The Empire was expecting just me.”

Shamir doesn’t look happy. Judith is steaming. “And you just thought you’d develop these little schemes without warning anyone-”

Claude tries to look imperious, unquestionable, completely in control. “Isn’t that the point of a spy?”

Ignatz is frowning, and says “but I thought we weren’t going to-”. Hilda says something like “I can’t _ believe _ you didn’t tell me-”. Lysithea says “_you mean you knew?” _ and arguments break out up and down the table. He can’t follow any of the threads. Under the table, his legs throbs again, hot and tight against the irreparable cravat. He has the bandage in a pocket. If he could just-

Judith smashes the hilt of her rapier against the table, making everyone jump. “_I don’t care, _ ” she says, anger bleeding through in every word hissed through her teeth. “What your little plans were, or what your noble intentions were. Too many people were at risk, and I won’t let you waste my soldiers for your vanity. This ends _ now _ . You tell your spy that whatever game you thought you were playing is _ done_.”

Her eyes glitter. “Of course,” she says, “if I were to find that anyone has been corresponding with the Empire in any capacity from this point on, I would have to consider that a threat against the lives of those who serve with me. And I would act accordingly. Is that clear?”

It’s Ferdinand, bizarrely, who breaks. He flushes, his whole face turning scarlet, and pushes his chair back from the table with a horrible scraping sound.

“No!” cries Hilda, as Lorenz, face falling, says “but I vouched for you!”

Claude wonders if he underestimated Ferdinand after all. Ferdinand winds a lock of hair around his finger, shrinking under the weight of everyone’s combined stares.

Shamir steps out of the shadow, knife glittering in her hand. "Talk."

"Ah. Um. Well. It is not that I… No, I-" he says, and stops. "It is just. If anyone did write to me. I prepared a few letters to send back. Of course, you can read them- I hold no secrets from you! And I have not received any correspondence from anyone, let alone my former allies in the Empire. But if they were to write - if they sought safety… could I really not respond?"

"Yeah," says Caspar, frowning. "I wrote to Linhardt just last week. Is he not gonna write back? I mean, he normally doesn't. But that's just Linhardt."

Ashe coughs. "And if someone was to write to friends still in Faerghus- not that I have! Or that anyone has! But if someone did, would that be an issue?"

"-But if he _ did _ write back, could I read it? Not that I normally can. Yeah, Linhardt has really crappy handwriting. But if he _ did _-"

Leonie puts her head in her hands. Lorenz looks every shade of outraged. Hilda, unmoored from the conversation around her, is talking cheerily to Marianne who started frowning at the mention of Linhardt. Claude makes eye contact with Dorothea, who looks just as confused as he is.

"I'm glad everyone still talks to their friends," says Teach. Flayn nods from her booster seat.

Seteth clears his throat. "It seems to me-"

_ Bang_. Judith bangs the flat of her blade against the chalkboard. Everyone falls silent. “It seems to me,” she says, slowly and carefully, “that things have been a little too relaxed around here. This is going to change. You are not children, playing at mock battles with your teachers on the sidelines to save you. You are at war with an enemy who has already cut a bloody path. If you want to risk your own necks, so be it. But the soldiers of House Daphnel are not your toys. And if your negligence leads to so much as a single hair on one single head being harmed...”

That would be the end of it. The end of collaboration with the Alliance, the end of Claude’s grand dream. What had seemed like the power he needed to bring about this change now feels transient like sand slipping out of his grasp. The walls he needs to tear down are springing back up stronger than ever before. Around the table, people look confused and dismayed. Even Hilda seems bothered by what Judith had said, although that might be the implication she had any responsibility.

Claude was aware their project ran on hope and good intentions, but with Teach at the helm it had felt doable, necessary, right. Maybe he was right to never believe in gods and faith and miracles.

Teach leans forward, slightly. “Perhaps we should meet to discuss this.”

Seteth nods, firmly. “I think that would be-”

“I think that would be wise,” Judith says. “As I no longer feel confident I can leave my soldiers who I have personally trained and outfitted in your care.”

Claude’s heart sinks. “You don’t mean-”

“Oh yes,” says Judith, the Hero of House Daphnel, Claude’s mother. Her eyes glitter viciously. “I’m staying with them.”

* * *

Teach pulls Seteth and Judith away into Claude’s office, nominally for a tactical meeting, but Claude knows Lorenz has been sent sprinting down to the dining hall to find the most appropriate tea set. Everyone else drifts out of the room in dribs and drabs, low currents of conversation carrying back to Claude at his corner. Work, it seems, will resume, albeit unhappily. With one hand Claude tries to remove the cravat, now stiff with dried blood, and waves people goodbye with the other.

“Hey,” Caspar says, the very last to leave. “I’m sorry. For, uh, writing to Linhardt, and stuff. I didn’t even think that it could be a problem? That sounds bad. Uhhhh. What I mean, is... I’ve really screwed you over, huh?”

“No,” says Claude, defeated. “Honestly, it’s fine. Just… don’t send any more, ok, until it’s all sorted. I’ll let you know. Tomorrow. Now, though, I’m going to sit here. Just for a minute.”

“Okay,” says Caspar, cocking his head to the side. “You’re not in that meeting? I mean, there’s a lot of big shots in there, drawing up plans and stuff. I would’ve thought they wanted you.”

“Yeah, well. Seems like things are changing around here.”

He must look pitiful, because Caspar looks sympathetic, and hits him on the shoulder almost gently. “Listen, Ashe and I, we’re going down to the town tonight. Going to have a little boy’s night, if you know what I mean.” Claude does not. “You want to come?”

“I’m good, I think,” replies Claude, flexing his leg experimentally under the table and trying his best to hide the wince. ”Have fun?”

“You know I will,” Caspar says, back to his usual cheer. “It’s boy’s night!” Claude’s going to put him for rubble clearing for the next _ month_. No, he can have sky watch. Maybe he’ll fall.

Claude could wait, there at the war table, for the adults to finish talking. He could linger outside the door like a scolded child looking for absolution. He could bang on the door until they let him in, assert his right as leader of the Alliance and the whatever-this-thing-is. Instead, he decides to do the sensible and mature thing, and go hide in his bedroom.

He can’t face the stairs, so he limps into one that’s unoccupied on the ground level and tries to wash the wound. It scabbed, at least, which is good, but the scab came off with the cravat. But it’s not as long as it could be. And for all that it bled, the cut looks shallow. It’s brownish red, and skin around it isn’t particularly swollen or hot. He grits his teeth, rinses it, and bandages it under his breeches as tightly as he dares. Even if it’s not the neatest job, the dusty carpet is red anyway, so it’s not like people could tell.

Then he has a nap, because there is actually an unoccupied bed under the piles of books, and he’s tired. If she wants to treat him like a child, then he’ll behave like one. That’s a comforting thought, and he settles in for a dreamless sleep that seems to start the moment he closes his eyes.

He jolts awake to a racket from the doorway. Someone is hammering on the door. “Go away,” he says, eyes gritty and tight. “There’s no one in here.”

There’s a bark of laughter. Actually, it’s more of a sharp exhale, but he’s known it long enough to recognise the noise, the speaker, and the intention. “Are you decent?” Judith asks, stopping her assault on the door.

“I’m clothed,” he says, blearily. She lets herself in anyway, and sits down at the desk, appraising the surroundings with a quirk of eyebrows.

“Now I see why you weren’t in your room. What is this, your overflow library?”

“Something like that.” He tries to sit up, and winces, leg unexpectedly stiff. “Did you need something?”

She doesn’t answer, and pulls a book out of one of the stacks. “Genealogies of Crests, Volume XIV. Light reading. Oh, but you’ve got volumes ten, eleven and twelve, so it must be gripping.”

“Can’t get enough,” he agrees, and yawns. “What time is it?”

“You’ve just missed lunch.” Actually, he missed breakfast too, in much the same manner. It would be nice if her wakeups were a little more timely. “I wanted to tell you we’ve reviewed the orange boy’s letters.”

“Ferdinand-” Claude corrects, without really thinking about it. His brain feels like it’s a cartwheel stuck in churning mud. There’s still sleep dust around his eyes, and he rubs at it with a frown.

Judith sniffs. “Florid Adrestian fop. Appears to be innocent, though. It doesn’t match any code Shamir or I have ever come across. And it’s mostly as he said - pages of begging his friends to defect for their own safety, promising the monastery will shelter them until they can _ free her from bad influences_. I assumed he meant that Vestra boy, but then Shamir found a letter to him too.” She pulls it from her pocket. “You’re of an age with him. If you’re writing courtship letters like this, don’t ever get me involved.”

Claude’s horrified. She’s watching him carefully, and smirks. “Youth is wasted on the young. When I was that age, I never called it-”

“Stop,” Claude says. “Please stop, I will do _ anything _ to make you stop.” The horror must woken him properly, because his brain spins freely. “Wait, you interrogated Ferdinand?”

“Hardly an interrogation. I don’t think I got a single word in.”

“I should’ve been there-”

“You should have. But you were hiding in this room.”

“Well, you could have found me-”

“I could have.”

“Ferdinand is my responsibility. I should have been informed, at least!”

She folds her arms. “When you’re willing to act like the leader, I’ll treat you like one. Until then, you can rely on your _ retainer _ to take over a few duties.”

“You can’t just do that-”

“I did. We agreed it all in the meeting you decided you didn’t want to attend. When you’re ready to take this seriously, and stop pretending you can win a war by choking the Empire with kindness, just let me know.” She stands up to leave. “Oh, and just so you know. Our next move will be capturing the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Your former teacher is drawing up the plans.”

The door doesn’t slam behind her, because that would make it look like she noticed that Claude was angry. It would look like she cared. No, she closed it behind her, like they’d had a perfectly pleasant conversation, and he feels so irrationally infuriated that he strides over and slams it shut himself. It‘s satisfying for a half-second, and then he feels empty once again.

He was still angry as he entered the dining hall, and nearly snarls at the serving girl as she offers him a few cold leftovers. She looks hurt, but he takes it anyway, and eats it as he stomps around, looking for Teach.

Lorenz finds him first. “Claude,” Lorenz says, worked up about something. “This plan. You do realise this will not go ignored by my father-”

“Best he finds out once it’s done,” says Claude, fumbling and nearly dropping one of his skewers. “Then he can’t try to stop you. Look, I’m busy right now. Have you seen the professor?”

“Try the pier,” Lorenz says, a little ungratefully. “And do come back once you’re in a better mood.”

There’s no Teach at the pier, but he finds Lysithea herding a small group of feral children towards the Greenhouse. “Claude,” she says, hurrying over to him. “Judith is saying we have to cross the bridge at Myrddin. House Ordelia is-”

He waves her off. “House Ordelia is south of Myrddin. I’m sure your family will be fine.”

“That’s not what I-” but he’s gone, striding off. There’s no way Teach would be lurking in the Greenhouse with that many small children around, so he tries the dormitories, the classrooms, the gardens. Nothing.

Hilda is in the Reception Hall, at least.

“Claude!” She rushes over, eyes sparkling. “Claude, you’ll never believe what happened to me. I thought I’d check Marianne was alright after Ailell, it was so unpleasant for her, you know, so cruel of Judith to drag us out there, and she-”

“That’s great,” he says. Why does everyone come to him with these things? No one treats him as a leader at all, just a glorified listening post and solver of all their problems. No one ever wants to talk about strategy and government and all the things he apparently should have been talking about to be taken seriously. “Have you seen the professor?”

Hilda doesn’t look angry, at least. “What’s with you?” Her nose wrinkles with distaste. “I would’ve thought you’d be happy to hear that we-”

“Yeah, some other time. I really need Teach.”

She frowns. “Training grounds, I think. But you definitely owe me for this.”

He barely has time to nod before he’s swinging on his heel, walking away. The training grounds are quiet, at least. But there’s no Teach. Only-

“Sylvain,” he says, trying to look some kind of neutral, and not actively displeased to see him. It’s hard. “Have you seen the professor?”

Sylvain is doing basic lance forms, extending his leg into the thrust. His hands tremble at full extension, and the lance point wavers. “Oh,” he says, “hey, you didn’t really tell me what to do earlier, so I-”

“Have you seen the professor?”

“Yeah, they said they were going to the gardens. I think they went to that old gazebo?”

It’s one of Teach’s favourite spots, but Claude has already searched there. Are they avoiding him? His leg complains about the sudden exertion, and he realises he has just stomped all over Garreg Mach chasing nothing, finding nothing, all to act on his bad mood. He feels, he realises, guilty. Horribly, stomach wrenchingly guilty. He’ll have to apologise to Lorenz tomorrow, take Hilda to tea to catch up on her gossip, and raise Lysithea’s concerns at the next war table. It might not be the most leaderly action, but it’s what they’re owed as his friends. He slumps to a seat on the floor.

Sylvain, after a moment, slumps next to him. “I really don’t know what’s going on,” he says. “But it’s not like you to be unhappy. Look, if it’s the cheese-”

“It’s not the cheese,” Claude says, although he’s thinking _ the cheese might be part of it _. “It’s just. Am I a good leader?”

“No idea,” Sylvain says. He’s honest, at least. “But we won the Eagle and Lion, back in the day. And you always had a good plan for the missions. And you’re an approachable guy, you know? I don’t think there was anyone who didn’t want to join your house before… You know.”

He stretches his arms out above him, and cracks his shoulders. “I never got that about you. You tell everyone you’ve got some dark scheme in the works and then you invite Dimitri and Edelgard to the celebratory dinner. Dunno about whether you’re the best leader, but you’re definitely one of a kind.”

It’s strange to hear it put like that. “But that was five years ago, and now-”

“Yeah, I know. It’s not the same. But… Things in the Kingdom, it’s been rough. We’ve had some tough times. And then I get here, and everyone has these smiles on their faces, you know? It’s just different. And if Dimitri hadn’t… If we were here, as the Kingdom… I don’t know. But it wouldn’t be the same. I’m kind of glad I was sent back. Even your beard isn't as bad as people said it was.”

Claude feels a little pink. “Thanks for listening to me. And believing in me.” It feels a bit limp after Sylvain’s words, but he’s surprisingly grateful to hear them. “Let me know when you want me to return the favour.”

Sylvain stands. “Meet me in the tavern tonight? Your round, of course.” Claude must be pulling a face, because he’s quickly spreading his hands out in surrender. “A joke, a joke, your worshipful Dukeness. A gentleman always buys the first drinks.” He holds out a hand to help Claude up, and Claude takes it.

“Seriously,” Sylvain says, after a moment. “I’m going to head over to the tavern now, if you want to-”

“No,” Claude says, “but thanks. I think I’m going to stay here and train for a bit.” Failnaught can move with a life all its own, but he hasn’t done his blocking exercises for a while. There’s a pile of training axes and light shields in the corner that would be just perfect. “Oh, but if you see Teach, can you send them my way?”

“Will do,” says Sylvain, cheerily. “See you later, Leader-boss!”

Claude picks an axe that’s definitely seen better days, but it has a weight he finds he likes, and it means he has to focus on not over-extending his arms else it wrenches his shoulder socket. He moves through one set of forms - forward block, centre block, high house all coming after a moment’s work - and feels so good that he goes through them again, moving faster through each repetition. His upper body muscles burn pleasantly, and he keeps at it until late afternoon bell, only stopping as the first fingers of twilight stretch over from the west.

He’s had time to think and clear his head, which he definitely needed. Even if she puts him on edge and challenges him at every step, he can’t give in to it. That’s almost telling her she’s right, that he can’t handle it, that he’s not ready. Better to regroup with Teach and present a unified front. Best to get her out of his head entirely and focus on moving forward.

He doesn’t see anyone as he cleans up, nor in the baths. The quiet is almost pleasant, and he risks running up to the infirmary to grab some fresh bandages for his leg. It’s a little odd that he doesn’t see anyone there either, but he’s successful, and helps himself to a big tome of maps from the library. As it’s there. As no one else is using it.

He’s sketching out a proposed route by candlelight when he realises that word of his bad mood must have spread, and that everyone was ignoring him as they waited for it to blow over. That stings. There’s not much he can do about it, though, so he resolves to go to bed and awaken with a big smile on his face tomorrow.

Maybe that’ll be enough. Maybe with his gifts and attention and apologies, they’ll all forgive him. Maybe he can finally get Caspar to explain what boy’s night is - should he know? Should he be worried about it? He sighs, and picks up Volume XIII of Genealogies of Crests, and reads lists of crestless nobles until he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading! This one is a little later than I wanted, but it needed a fairly major eleventh hour redraft. (RIP the original boy's night sequence... gone but never forgotten) The next chapter is unfortunately probably going to be a very big one, as there's a lot of character notes I need to either establish or wrap up in it, and it should - if my planning holds true - kick off some major plot threads. I'm giving myself an extra week to get it right, so please don't worry if there isn't a chapter next weekend!
> 
> I know Judith and [redacted] being Claude's parents isn't explicitly textually canon, but they are in this fic for a few reasons:  
1\. **Narrative efficiency.** I am not coming up with OCs to do the exact same job when there's perfectly good (actually, really good?) characters who already exist! That's not my style! Besides, I really like what we do see of Claude's relationship with them. Also, I will never pass up the chance for a woman to get angry at Claude, and Judith has a particularly low tolerance for his shit.  
2\. I do think there is some support for reading FE16 that way! And apparently [redacted] has dialogue in [redacted]'s paralogue that also supports it, although I couldn't confirm it myself.  
3\. They're both sexy and fun which really counts for a lot.  
3a. They look like Claude.  
3ai. Honestly considering how much the other Almyran character (Cyril) does not look like Claude at all I don't think it's unintentional???  
4\. Judith is the only Lord NPC in the entire franchise so how else would she have that class!!!!! I see you there!!!!!! Intsys!!!!!!!!
> 
> If you disagree, feel free to disagree quietly. And write your own fic where they aren't. But please, don't go out of your way to tell me about it. Thanks so much. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr as wizling and twitter as vvizling if you want updates on social media.
> 
> Next chapter: The Heartless


	7. The Heartless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude helps a friend, helps a not-friend, and faces consequences for his actions, but not in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning:** alcohol abuse and alcoholism.
> 
> Also, this chapter is nearly 10k words, holy shit, why did nobody stop me.

**Lone Moon, 1185**

Claude's good mood nearly lasts a whole week. 

He has tea with Hilda, which is perfectly pleasant, although she spends the whole time gushing about Marianne. He is fond of her, and he doesn't disagree, but there's only so much about Marianne's hands and face and hair and smile that he can take before he starts tuning it out. It cheers her up even if he's completely lost track of what she's trying to tell him. Lorenz, not to be outdone, has tea with him twice, and manages to maintain some semblance of conversation. He plucks at his favourite fake rose whenever the conversation moves towards Judith's brilliant plan to attack Myrddin, but really, it would be odd if he didn't feel any apprehension at all. Claude doesn't yet have an answer for how they're going to manage Count Gloucester, so he tries to steer the conversation away whenever it comes up. Even Lysithea thaws when he pops into her classroom to help the children with sums. 

It feels nice, and easy, and Judith being holed up somewhere with Seteth and the Professor in endless serious discussions is only part of it. He reads the minutes of every meeting anyway, just to be sure, not that he really thinks he’s missing out on something important. Surely someone would come and get him before that.

The minutes - once he’s cracked the code of Seteth’s cramped shorthand - are repetitive, page after page detailing the endless questions Judith apparently had about their virtuous bloodless war. What engagements had they fought? What were their numbers? How many casualties? How many deaths? Did Professor Eisner think that was sustainable? Had Professor Eisner ever actually fought in a war before? Did Professor Eisner possess the sense they were born with, and if not, where had they lost it? 

There aren’t that many answers. Claude can picture it; Judith standing up, radiating fury, and the Professor blinking at their desk, repeating _ but it’s right_. Sadly, Seteth doesn’t detail how many times they came to blows. He scribbles down anything that seems salient in his own personal code - Almyran, in the phonetic Duscur script, quill held in his straining left hand, but after summarising the week, he has a scant half page to work with, most of which he can't actually read. Still, writing it all out was enough to fix some in his mind, and he doesn't feel completely unprepared when Judith calls the inevitable war council.

This time, he's there early, and waves his former classmates in to their obvious surprise. Hilda takes the seat to his right, and Marianne sits next to her without a moment's hesitation. Lorenz makes a beeline for Claude's left, pushing past Lysithea to get there. She says a word Claude didn't think she knew, but Lorenz sits smugly, and Lysithea scowls as she takes a seat on his other side. 

He's surprised by how much their group has grown since that night around the fire. Ashe and Caspar sit towards the back, trying not to draw attention to the kitten they've very obviously got hidden in Ashe's overcoat. Dorothea is engaged in a pointed conversation with Ignatz, ignoring Ferdinand on her left. And there's Sylvain, still staring at Leonie with some kind of reverent awe. The Church delegation file in last, Flayn rushing to Raphael and handing him half a sandwich. Seteth follows Judith, lost in thought. Claude rests his hands behind his neck, and waits for it all to begin.

It doesn't take long. "That's why," Judith says, jabbing the point on the map with the tip of her sword, "I will lead my personal troops on an apparent invasion of Gloucester territory, drawing the Count's attention away from the bridge." Claude can't take his eyes away from the emphatic sword holes littering the map. Against the blackboard it almost looks like stars.

Lorenz clears his throat. "There is no way my father will fall for that. He will recognise Alliance troops immediately."

"These aren't Alliance troops. They're my troops."

"He will not mistake that they have sallied from within the Alliance. You will push him further into the arms of the Empire!"

Judith's voice drops, icily. That's the first step to shouting, stomping, and someone getting stabbed. His mother has never had great control of her temper. "Oh, boo hoo. You want to save your miserable traitorous father. Do you think you're the only one, little Gloucester boy? I have had spies in the house of every treacherous snake in the Alliance for the last five years. Believe me, once we take the bridge, they'll make their allegiances very clear. Even a fool would see we would best be rid of them before they can do any actual damage."

Lorenz bites his lip. Claude reaches for his arm under the table, to pat it, or provide whatever comfort he can. Lysithea's sleeves rustle, and she must be doing the same.

"I don't care if he lives or dies," Lorenz says, steady and strong. "You've seen what manner of beast he can be, no, that he is. The beast he always has been. But I will not let you kill half the Gloucester peasantry to get his attention. Because that is what it will take, Lady Judith, a threat not to his life, but to his power and his wealth. I am not planning to inherit the Alliance's most fruitful graveyard!"

Judith doesn't say anything, and gives Lorenz an appraising look. "Do you think I'm out to bankrupt you?"

"You could well be! But no, I am far more concerned about the trail of bodies you plan to leave, particularly of those for which I have particular responsibility and interest. No, I know Claude trusts you, but frankly, I have no reason to. House Daphnel has been in decline for many years, even ceding its seat at the roundtable. Am I supposed to believe you would never want that back?"

"House Ordelia supports the Empire as well," Lysithea says, coldly. "Gloucester often leans on them for aid and support. Are you going to invade Ordelia too?"

Judith crosses her arms, a gesture that's amplified by her eyes glittering with dark anger. "Anyone else think I'm going to invade them? Lady Edmund? Lady Goneril?"

Marianne looks away.

"Ugh, don't look at me," Hilda says. "I'm not even going to inherit, so what should I care?"

"It's not that we don't trust you," Lysithea says. "But we don't know you. You're not our leader. Claude is. And this isn't Claude's plan." There's a ripple of movement around the table as various people nod, Raphael spreading crumbs with his enthusiasm.

Then they look at Claude. Under the table, Lorenz reaches for his hand, intertwines their fingers and squeezes. Hilda rests her hand on his leg, warm fingertips skimming over the lump of the bandage. There's a lump in his throat, but he doesn't know why.

"My plan," he says, and clears his throat, hoping it will come to him soon. "My plan, well. I don't disagree with Lady Daphnel that we need to take the conflict to the Empire at some point. And Myrddin is strategically important, not just as a pinch point, but... wouldn't it also cut off Empire ties for those in the Alliance? Without forcing them to declare allegiance one way or the other. If we can strike quickly, we sever the Empire's influence without hurting any of our people. Even Count Gloucester can save face."

Lorenz still has Claude's hand in a death grip, but Lysithea is nodding.

"So I agree, as well, that the best approach would be a distraction. Something to pull pro-Empire Alliance forces away from the border without any great loss of life. What if… what if, instead of House Daphnel's forces attacking, they were Almyran?"

It's not quite the reaction Claude wanted, but it's what he expected. Hilda's mouth is actually hanging open in shock.

"What," Leonie says, like she's trying to suppress nervous laughter. "Don't tell me you control the Almyran armies too?"

"Not exactly," Claude says, not yet_ , not if I have any say in it. _ "But Hilda, wouldn't it be easy for a small force of Almyran raiders to get over the Throat?"

Her hand on his leg stops. _ Go with me in this _ , he wills, unable to wink at her. _ Back me up_. 

Hilda pauses. "Sure," she says, finally. "The Throat is full of holes. The only reason House Goneril have control and not Almyra is because they love throwing themselves at the Locket for some stupid reason. Just ask Holst about it. There's loads of routes across the mountains that they can't guard at all."

"So all we would need is a rumour that Almyran looters are heading towards Gloucester territory-"

"And an Almyran force," Lysithea says, "which you don't have."

Judith clears her throat. "I can arrange that. I'm sure I can mimic some Almyran uniforms, and if it comes to it, I've crossed the Throat before myself."

"That sounds perfect," he says, before anyone can point out she'd need to fly to make it there and back in time. He's not lying to his classmates or the Church by not telling them there's almost certainly an Almyran force ready and waiting to go in Daphnel territory - that's not _ lying _, technically. "But it only needs to be enough to get noticed. We don't want Count Gloucester thinking there's a full on Almyran invasion or anything."

All she needs to do is let Ameera run around Ameera-ing, but he can't say that now. Better to be subtle. Better to avoid a full-on Almyran war. He remembers the postscript, unmistakable even through her deranged chicken-scratch Almyran penmanship. _ He's ready when you are. _ Claude hopes he can wait a little longer.

There's quiet, everyone thinking, everyone realising that it might actually work.

"And what of Garreg Mach?" Seteth says, breaking the moment.

"I'll divide my forces," Claude says, "just like with Ailell. We only want a few, anyway. It's better to do a surgical strike than a massive battle at this point, especially on the bridge."

"If we take our mounted units…" Teach says, slowly. Claude hadn't realised how quiet they'd been. It was almost like they weren't there.

"We can travel quickly. We can take Myrddin in a flash, and get back to Garreg Mach before Gloucester gets suspicious." He glances around the table - nobody looks actively displeased with that - and looks back at Teach. "Any volunteers?"

"Bagsy I go," says Hilda, wrinkling her nose. "I'm definitely way better at keeping an eye on Claude than anyone else. Oh, and Marianne's coming too, us being your amazing A-team and all."

"If you're taking the pegasi, Jerrie could do with a run-"

"I'd like to go," Ashe says, suddenly, looking up and away from the tiny paw swiping at his coat buttons. "I feel like I owe it to the Kingdom, you know, to continue the fight in their stead."

"Me too," says Caspar, dropping the sliver of fish he was feeding to the kitten. "If Ashe is going, I wanna go too- you guys have had so many fights without me, and I'm so good at stopping before anyone gets hurt." Ashe nods.

"If you're happy to mount up," Claude says, dim memories stirring of helping Caspar study for wyvern riding certifications. "Ferdinand, how do the stables look?"

"We are well-stocked with excellent warhorses, thanks to the venerable Lady Daphnel and her most generous reinforcements! Even the aviary is packed!" That's true. If Claude focuses, he can hear Tessa screeching about the extra wyverns taking up her space. Or she could just be screeching. Ferdinand clears his throat. "Perhaps I could-"

Lorenz finally releases Claude's hand. "Perhaps not, my dear. I do appreciate your enthusiasm, but we wouldn't want you to become a target for your former allies. I will be able to handle this, perhaps with Sylvain's assistance?"

"What?" says Sylvain, blinking. "Oh, uh, sure. I guess. I've been fighting, haven't I? That makes sense."

Claude counts them. Plenty of fliers, and cavalry support, and all they need is-

"I'll go."

"Are you sure, Lysithea?"

She's never looked surer. "I want to see what it's like on the border for myself."

Teach looks at her. "You want to see House Ordelia?"

"Does that matter? I want to be there."

There's no one better with magic than Lysithea, either blowing people back, or healing them afterwards. He's sure Mira won't mind carrying her for a swoop over Ordelia territory once they're done. "Glad to have you," Claude says. "Is everyone happy with that?"

Crucially, no one says no. He leans back. "Looks like we have a plan."

* * *

They use the weeks to prepare. Claude has Caspar and Ashe take up the sky patrol - Hilda can't still want it - and puts Lorenz and Sylvain in the stables, practicing lancework and getting to know the horses. Judith disappears to prepare her side, and that's a nice week of peace, even if Claude suspects she's just meeting her troops half a day's ride beyond his usual Garreg Mach patrol routes. 

He tries to find holes wherever he can, but it's a good plan, and when Claude visualises it as pieces on a game board, it even goes their way sometimes. He runs out of worst case scenarios, and gets really silly with it. _ What if half the Alliance comes out in support of the Empire and tries to cut them off? What if meteors rain down, blowing the bridge to pieces with everyone still on it? What if the Death Knight appears riding the Immaculate One? _It's a little bit depressing that this is all he has to entertain himself with in the lengthening Lone Moon nights.

He passes Hilda sneaking out of Marianne's room one night, on his way to get a drink from the dining hall. They don't say anything, but she flashes him a wide smile and a thumbs up, so things must be going well. Marianne certainly seems a little brighter the next morning.

With the return of the sun, he feels the first cautious stirrings of hope, so, of course, that's when Lysithea gets hospitalised.

"It's only a cold," she croaks, batting away Claude's hand. He checks her temperature anyway. She's burning up and her cheeks are as pink as her eyes. The rest of her face is a ghostly white. He wants to show her how bad it is, to help it sink in, but frightening her is probably the only way he could make things worse right now.

"Even if I agreed - and I don't, for the record - you really don't look well. Sorry, Lys," he ignores her outraged squawk, "but there's no chance you can come down to Myrddin with us. You need to rest."

"Absolutely not," she says, "I have too much to do-" but she's cut off by a rib shaking cough. She's so pale and small in the hospital bed, even tucked neatly in the sheets, face bright with fever and eyes bright with fury. Claude doesn't know what else to do. He wishes they had a proper doctor.

Dorothea is hovering, washing and re-washing her hands.

"Is there anything you can…?" He knows it sounds limp as he says it.

Dorothea shakes her head. "All magic will do is make it worse. She needs to rest. Let her body handle this one."

Lysithea looks even angrier, which makes it the perfect time for Claude to leave. "Well, there you have it," he says, "Of course, if you have any other questions, Dorothea can-"

"Actually," Dorothea says, catching the door on her foot. "Doesn't that leave you short of a healer?"

It does. "I have a plan for that," he says, even though he doesn't. Dorothea's expression sharpens and he realises how it must sound. "Not you- absolutely not you. I promised, didn't I, that you having to fight with us, against the Empire, was a one time thing?"

"You didn't," she says, flicking her hair back. "But you’re right. I’m not volunteering." She glances up and down the corridor, and pulls him into the abandoned office opposite. "They were my _ friends. _ If I had to fight anyone - goddess forbid, if we ended up killing them - I would never forgive myself. I would never forgive you. And I know we're friends now, or at least something of that sort, but don't you dare think you can use me as, as a weapon, as some kind of tool to bring her down-"

Claude catches her hand before she pokes him in the chest. "I won't," he says, "and I don't, Dorothea, I keep trying to tell you you're so much more than what you think people need you to be- but. But. There is someone who needs you right now. And I know you're not Professor Manuela, and I'm not asking you to be, but if she was able to teach you anything about this-"

Dorothea glances back towards the infirmary, and Claude sees her hesitate. Bring her hands back to her side. Smooth her skirts, just a fraction. He wonders when he learned how to separate act from fiction. "No promises," she says, voice steady. "But I'll see what guidance she left behind."

Claude could have kissed her. He suspects it would be the worst thing he could do, at that moment, but it doesn't stop the urge. He tries to think of all the other things he could do. He could pull her hair. He could laugh at her. He could push her over.

"Thank you," he says, as sincerely as he can. The strange feeling in the air lingers just a moment more, and he thinks about those nights alone, preparing battle plans. Thinks about what she'd said. _ I didn't think you were the type of noble to let himself into a common girl's room at night. _ Had she really thought he was- "Dorothea, would you..."

He doesn't actually know what he's trying to ask her.

"Not with you, Claude," she says sweetly. "But thanks for the offer. Let's just be friends." Then she sweeps off in a whirlwind of silks and he's somehow even more confused than he was a minute ago. Nothing he can do, and best not to think of it. He goes to find Teach.

Teach is, predictably, by the gazebo. They're lost in thought, and he has to cough to warn them as he approaches.

"Claude," Teach says, face immobile. "Do you need me?"

"Lysithea's unwell," he says. "And Dorothea's looking after her." Teach sucks in a breath through their teeth. "I know, it's not great, but if we focus on avoiding injury, we won't need someone to hea-"

"I'll do it."

Teach could, conceivably. They have a natural mastery of white magic, and they'll be there anyway. But Claude has a strange feeling there's something happening with Teach, or something Teach is deliberately trying to keep from him, and it's like time travelling, rushing him back through the past few years to when he was newly arrived in Fódlan, everything he knew and everything he was marking him as an outsider, strange, and he would strain to hear what people were saying about him under their breath. It's not that he can't trust Teach. It's probably not that. But it feels like spiders crawling up his spine all the same.

"Thank you," he says. "But I think we should focus on avoidance-"

Teach reaches out to touch the gazebo, lost in thought again. He sighs. "I'll make the arrangements, then."

It's easy enough to teach Leonie hand signals for follow, stay, flank, guard. Hilda insists she can't possibly learn all this in less than a week, but he's feeling strangely frayed, worn thin at all his edges. He catches Marianne giving him a glance, and maybe she says something to Hilda, because the next day Hilda stops insisting she should be left to do whatever she wants, and Claude doesn't get any more of his hastily-sketched guides shoved back under his door.

The next problem is the cavalry.

"You're wheeling into me!" Lorenz hisses, in their third unsuccessful run through of the synchronised charge Claude had naively thought would be simple.

"No I'm not, you're off the mark!" There's a few monks and nuns gathering, always interested in fights between the nobility. Sylvain's face is red, but Claude isn't sure if it's exertion or anger.

"My line is perfect," Lorenz snaps. "But I don't know what I expected from you, seeing as you can't even walk straight-"

"Ok," says Claude, "that's enough, okay. Both of you." They glare at him. The horses, ears flat against their heads, glare at him too. "What's the problem?"

"Sylvain isn't taking this seriously."

"I am! Lorenz is being a dick!"

Claude doesn't have time for this. "We ride out tomorrow," he says, through gritted teeth. "At dawn. And if you're not ready, we're leaving you behind."

Sylvain snorts, crossing his arms. "What did you expect from a guy who's been doing a traitor's paperwork for the last five years? At least I've been fighting."

"Is that what you call it?" Lorenz asks, in a nauseatingly false light tone. "Interesting. I suppose even _ you _ couldn't live in denial forever-"

"And I'm sure you've had a nice time getting to know your hand-"

"That's enough!"

Claude recognises the voice, but it's surprising all the same. Ferdinand, face red and shirt open, appears from the stables. There's dirty straw in his hair, and he's carrying a pitchfork like he's forgotten to put it down. 

He gestures with it as he speaks. "You are - _ both _ of you - acting in a manner that is thoroughly unbecoming! I am _ ashamed _to overhear it, yes, I am ashamed of you. Look at yourselves! You're upsetting the horses."

Lorenz's mare rolls her eyes, and Sylvain's gelding swishes his tail, but Ferdinand has a point. He steps towards them - "let me-" he says, realising he's still carrying the pitchfork and thrusting at it Claude - before he takes both the reins and starts to lead the horses through the yard.

Claude can hear him as he goes. "You're too focussed on the line," Ferdinand tells Sylvain, wheeling his horse to position at the start of the courses. "You need to look at where you're going, and let the horse take her own steps. And you, my dear, are on the wrong leg every time, so of course she's going to struggle. Once you're in the canter, relax on your left, and with your leg, squeeze, like this, you see? Then soften, give her her head, and she'll have it." Claude points Mira at the thing he wants to be closer to and lets her work it out. Up to this point, giving her her head usually involved portioning up a dead sheep.

Ferdinand turns to Claude, and Claude can't help but smile back at him. Sylvain and Lorenz perform the charge perfectly, and he doesn't know who's more surprised: him, or the horses.

He lingers until they've done it twice more under Ferdinand's guidance, and Lorenz is pink-cheeked from the praise. Even Sylvain looks happier. He catches Ferdinand by the shoulder, and hands him the pitchfork back.

"Thank you," Claude says, and then, because Ferdinand's shirt is still open, and he needs to look anywhere else: "I had no idea horses were so complicated!"

Ferdinand beams. "It is nothing! Truly, any adequate horseman could do as I have done. I suppose our dear friends were merely a little preoccupied, and I merely helped them back on the correct path. Although it pains me not to be able to take the front lines and protect my comrades, I understand why and I must do all I can to support you."

He tries to let Ferdinand's speech sink in. "I didn't know what else to do." That sounds almost like an admission of defeat, so Claude adds, "with the horses, I mean."

Ferdinand's smile disappears, but his face softens, and he swaps the pitchfork to his other hand to gently clasp Claude's arm. "We all have our strengths and our weaknesses. Please, let me do what I can, and focus yourself on what others cannot."

"I'll keep that in mind," Claude agrees, and waves goodbye. It's barely noon, but he has so much to oversee before they leave tomorrow. The Aviary needs a sweep, and he has to check what provisions have been packed for the ride, and then make sure Lysithea is still breathing before taking minutes at Teach's monthly meeting with the knights and finalising the next three month's budgets. He'd best get to work. At this rate, he'll still be awake when they leave at dawn.

* * *

Dawn is cold, but uneventful, and the horses make good use of the old Adrestian roads to the bridge. They don't see any sign of any Gloucester troops, which either means Judith's plan is working, or that they're all lying in wait at the final crossroads. It could go either way.

Teach motions everyone to stop just before they arrive. Claude dismounts, legs shaking. He's never riding a horse again. He's going to get a second wyvern, that way he can keep Mira fresh for the battle and never ever have to do this again. He catches Lorenz watching him and waits for the comment.

Lorenz's lips are a tight, thin line.

"Hey," Claude says, uncomfortable. "No comment on my terrible riding skills?"

"What?" It's not like Lorenz to be distracted, especially not this close to a battle.

Claude's a little concerned, but needs to play it light. "I must have dazzled you. Guess I'm a natural at this after all."

Lorenz hums in half-agreement, and wanders off. Marianne hands him Mira's reins, and he pauses before mounting. "Hey," he asks her, trying to pitch it so it won't carry. "Is Lorenz ok?"

"I don't think so," she says. "I'd like to finish here quickly." To be honest, Claude would too. He gives her fingers a squeeze as he takes the reins, and Mira grunts as he settles.

Teach motions them over with a wave. 

"It's clear from this end," they say. "So we'll move in as far as we can and launch the attack from there."

It's not a bad plan, but- "What happens if that's their intention? If we're all drawn onto the bridge, it's very easy for someone to sneak in behind us and trap us in a pincer." The bridge is wide, but not that wide. With all these horses and bulky flying bodies, things will get bloody very fast.

"Could someone hang back?" Hilda asks. "At the mouth, to warn us if they see anything coming, so we can pull back?"

"That'd do it," Leonie says, "but we didn't exactly bring a whole battalion of spares."

"I'll stay." That's Caspar, but that can't be _ Caspar_. Claude's aware that everyone is turning to look, himself included. Caspar flushes.

"You were really looking forwards to the fight," says Ashe, sadly.

"I know. I was. But listen, ok. I've thought this one through, I promise. No one can yell louder than me, and if there is any trouble, I get to take 'em all on at once! How awesome is that? So don't worry, ok, and let me handle it."

Claude glances at Teach, who gives the tiniest nod. "Ok," he says. "If you're sure." Caspar gives a little fistpump. "Teach, can you station everyone forwards? I'm going to have a look."

It's probably risky, making himself a big black target against the bright sky, but he couldn't really ask anyone else to do it, and it's good for Mira to stretch her wings after the long ride. Claude is aware that he will have to spot any snipers lurking in the fortifications before they spot him. He can take that risk.

Up close, the bridge has a scale he didn't quite grasp from the ground. The walls are heavily fortified with two kinds of stone, and there's room on the gates and towers for siege equipment. Today, at least, they're empty, and Claude has to assume the bulk of the Empire's resources are still needed for the fighting in Faerghus. Is it kind of brilliant to attack the Empire from the east, where they least expect it? Mira crests the fortifications, and he files that thought away for later.

Now that he's above them, the size of the walls is making him nervous. The bridge takes a sharp turn after the central fortification, and he can’t see anything on the Empire’s bank. It worries him that he can't see anything around the turn - they could be hiding anything - but at least there’s plenty of noise. If he strains, he can make out the scrapes and groans of heavy armour. There’s a horse’s nervous whinny. And there, a wyvern’s screech. Unfortunately for the resistance army, the Empire didn’t leave their bridge unattended.

There's a branching corridor to the right, but he can’t risk having a peek now. Once they've drawn attention from their first push, his flier support might be able to risk it, but sending Marianne and Ashe over those impenetrable walls blind would be suicidal.

From the front, things look little better. The snipers are at least at the back of the fortifications, and haven’t spotted him yet, but there’s plenty of heavy armour knights, and he can just see what might be Demonic Beasts patrolling the turn. That’s really not good. And there, in the centre of the fortifications, clear as day, that must be their commander.

Who appears to be watching him too.

He pulls Mira down hastily, biting the inside of his cheek. He needs his group together, he needs to update them, he needs to do it_ now_. They've moved into position at the mouth of the bridge.

Leonie quirks an eyebrow as he lands and tries to dismount. "That bad, huh?"

"Not exactly-" Claude says, but his foot is caught in the stirrup, and he's forced to hop desperately as Mira chuffs and chides him.

"Tessa can smell another wyvern," Hilda says, arms shaking with the effort of reining her mount in. "Claude, she's going crazy, you know what she's like- Hey! No! Do_ not _bite Mira!"

"No," Claude hops desperately as Mira takes a protective step back. "It's actually-"

"-Linhardt," says Marianne, so softly Claude is convinced he's misheard. 

"Hello," says Linhardt, with a little wave. "Yes, yes, hello. I have something to say to you all. Ah, what's the word? Oh yes. I surrender."

Claude's foot slips free. He slips backwards, and lands with force on his rear. It_ hurts _, and he hisses, and rubs it instinctively, blinking as his eyes water. A shadow falls over him. He looks up to see Linhardt.

Linhardt, whose eyes are as cold and dispassionate as ever, who is watching Claude very closely, who doesn't ever let anyone forget their mistakes. Great.

He scrambles to his feet. "No, please," Linhardt says, voice just on the judgemental side of outright mockery. "I think I prefer you like that."

Claude has to ignore it. "What are you doing?"

Linhardt offers his empty hands, arms outstretched, wrists up. "I don’t like to repeat myself, but I’ll make an exception. Do pay attention this time. I surrender."

Claude has absolutely no idea what he should be doing. Everything he learned about the formal rules of engagement in Fódlan is gone, like it has melted and dribbled out of his ears. He reaches out, and takes Linhardt’s thin, pale wrists in his hands.

"Thanks," he says, feeling stupider by the second. He can feel a pulse point racing under Linhardt's skin. "But we don’t want you."

"Claude!" Hilda hisses.

"What he means-" Leonie interrupts, pulling a piece of rope out of her saddlebags, "is that we accept your surrender." Linhardt gives her a half nod, and pulls his wrists out of Claude's grasp.

"Wait-" Claude says, and Hilda glares at him like he's going to stop whatever she thinks should be going ahead from happening. "Before you tie him up. It's been a while, so, I have to ask. How good's your healing, Linhardt?"

Linhardt smiles like a crescent moon, wan and sickly, splitting his face. "I don't think my participation in this event was a condition of my-"

"Great news! It is now. Help us out, or I tell Hilda about that time you took Marianne's-"

"-I'll help," Linhardt says. "But I want it known it was under duress."

"That's fine," says Claude, remounting. "I really don't care. Just cover us."

He dimly hears Hilda asking _ "took Marianne's what?" _ but it's not important, what's important is getting the bridge clear. He motions Ashe and Marianne to take the right, and Leonie and Hilda to stay with him. Lorenz and Sylvain will charge first, taking the archers by surprise, and then it's up to the fliers to mop up what's left.

Teach's voice floats across on the wind. _ "Hello, Linhardt. You're looking well," _ and then there's the smell of ozone for a single second before the air ripples, shines, and splits open.

Acheron warps onto the bridge. Claude knows him mostly by name: he hasn't made a habit of acknowledging his desperate attempts to get into the roundtable. He flatters and insults Count Gloucester in equal parts, always has an excuse when caught out of line, and probably isn't worth the amount of effort it would take to get rid of him. On a personal and professional level, Claude feels more warmth towards the enormous black spiders that take refuge in his bedroom.

Acheron readies a spell. "Now!" Claude yells, even though it's too early, and there's a crash as everyone takes off around him. Dimly, he sees a streak of blue and white as Marianne and Ashe take the right passageway, and then Lorenz thunders past him. Towards Acheron. He kicks Mira forward, but on the ground she can't outpace a horse, and there isn't enough room to take off properly.

The magic gathers around Acheron. If he's alarmed by Lorenz hurtling towards him, he doesn't look it. Claude opens his mouth. The spell releases. The words die in his throat.

Sylvain crashes into Lorenz, and the spell goes wide.

Mira launches. He has an arrow nocked and ready before he's consciously thought to do so.

Now, at last, Acheron looks surprised. He looks over his shoulder, back to the bulk of the army beyond the curve. Lorenz and Sylvain have untangled themselves, and slowly standing up. Their horses struggle to their feet behind them.

"Ladislava!" Acheron calls, imperious and smug. "How much is your lady offering for Duke Riegan's head?"

Mira flaps. Acheron grins. Claude's heart thumps. He doesn't see whatever grabs him and throws him to the ground.

* * *

He doesn't black out, or at least, he doesn't think he blacks out. He can hear Mira shrieking, somewhere, and his ears are ringing beyond that. It's hard to breathe, with something wrapped around him, crushing his ribs. He's gasping, he realises, as the ringing starts to subside. He's dropped Failnaught. His vision is white.

"-reckless-"

He blinks furiously, trying to clear the sparks so he can see. Whatever's holding him is warm and rough, like leather. It's dark, too. It swims into focus. His stomach churns as he recognises wrinkles, knuckles, fingernails. He's being held by a giant Demonic Beast.

It swings him around without warning, and suddenly he's looking at its face, or the fringed mask where a face should be. It roars at him, and he feels it more than hears it. 

"-fucking nightmare-"

He tries to follow the voice. There, to the beast's right. There's a woman on a wyvern. She frowns as they make eye contact and says something he can't hear.

"I'm sorry," he tries, and his voice sounds like he's speaking through a sock. "I didn't hear that."

She comes closer. "I said, I wish he'd just killed you." She sighs, swapping the axe to her other hand. "What a fucking pain. Go on, put him down."

Claude didn't think the beasts understood language, but sure enough, he's scrambling to find his feet a moment later. The woman - what had Acheron called her? - lands, but doesn't dismount, looking at him with even and steady disapproval.

"I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you," he says. His head is clearing. The plan he'd left was built around him. He'd told them all to follow him on a sweep through the centre, reconvene at the bend, then charge through as quickly as they could without actually setting foot on Empire land. He hadn't anticipated Acheron. He hoped Teach was ready to adjust. All he can do without Mira, without Failnaught, is buy time. "But do you know where I am? And who are you, by the way?"

She doesn't take the bait. "Let me be clear. The only person who wants you alive is Vestra, and by the point I hand you over to him you'll be begging for death instead. What a mess." She doesn't take her eyes off him, either. Claude's not used to Edelgard's lieutenants having discipline.

"I think there's been some kind of mistake," he says. "Who is Mr Vestra? Why would he want me alive? Honestly, I really don't know what's going on. Why am I being attacked in Alliance territory?"

"Shut up."

He can't tell if there are hooves in the distance or his ears are still ringing, but he has to keep trying. "Not until you tell me what's going on. Who are you? Who is Vestra? Why do you keep threatening me?"

She growls. "You are the most annoying person I've ever met."

"Oh, this is nothing," Claude says, honestly. There are definitely hooves somewhere. If there aren't, his brain is properly scrambled, and goading her into killing him would be in everyone's favour. "I can be so much more annoying than this. _ I know a song that- _"

She raises her axe. Tessa hits her like a bolt of lightning. The wyverns hit the ground, shrieking, and Hilda appears on top of the writhing pile, the woman's axe in her hand. 

Then there's a burst of noise, and Claude's ears must still be busted because the vibrations of the hooves through the cobblestones make his teeth shake. They rush past him, Leonie, Sylvain and Lorenz all chasing down the beast that grabbed him. He can only watch as Sylvain's charger rears, and he thrusts his lance into the beast's chest. It screams, and doubles over, trying to swipe him. Leonie stands up in the saddle, Jerrie dancing back out of reach, and shatters the crest stone on its head with an arrow. The beast collapses and turns into black smoke. There's a body on the ground. Claude can't look at it.

Someone touches his shoulder, and he whirls around, hypersensitive like a raw nerve. "Your head's bleeding," says Linhardt. "Gross."

He touches his left temple. His fingertips get wet. "Oh," he says, feeling stupid. "I didn't notice." He doesn't have anywhere to wipe them.

Linhardt frowns, and reaches over, white magic building around his hand. Claude notices the absence of the ache immediately, and he can hear again.

"Fuck you," Hilda's saying, "and fuck your wyvern. Tessa, bite it again!"

"There's another one-" Lorenz is saying. Leonie whooshes past, displacing enough air with Jerrie's wings to buffet Claude backwards.

"I've got it," she says. "Sylvain, can you cover?"

He doesn't hear the hooves, but he doesn't need to, because there's shouting on the beast's other side, and as he turns he hears it roar back a challenge. There's a whinny, a choked scream, and Marianne pulls her rapier out of the remnants of the shattered crest stone. The black smoke dissipates quickly, revealing Ashe right behind her. 

His heart starts pounding again. That's almost everyone, safe and accounted for. The only people missing are-

"Hello," says Teach, Acheron trussed up in ropes and slung over their shoulder. "I've decided I don't like this man."

"Me neither," Claude says. "Have you seen Mira?" Teach looks blank. "My wyvern. She has a really broad face, and big eyes."

"Good luck finding her," sneers Acheron. "She's long gone by now."

"Good luck rotting in prison," says Claude, "for assaulting Duke Riegan and making threats against the life of a member of the roundtable. When I formally strip you of your title and your lands, who should I give them to? Teach? You want in?"

"No thank you," says Teach, politely. "I'm going to go put this man with the baggage convoy."

Linhardt moves to follow them. "Not you," Claude says, as his friends knock out everyone still standing. The bridge is almost clear. "I need some information." He leads Linhardt off to one side. "Who's the woman on the wyvern?"

"Excuse me," Linhardt says, "I'm a prisoner of war."

"Her name is Ladislava!" Hilda yells.

"Is she important to Edelgard?"

"I have the right to remain silent."

"You joined us," Claude says, "of your own free will. If you're not going to be helpful, I'll send you back home."

Linhardt widens his eyes. "Oh no! How terrible, to go back to a life of idle leisure, away from you and this awful war. Poor me."

Claude is going to hit him. "Why even bother-" he starts saying, and stops, because he doesn't know how to finish it.

"Heads up!" Caspar yells, wyvern crashing to a halt. Mira follows him, settling down far more gently. "There's a guy - a magic guy, looked like a real dickhead, he's going to try warping in behind you-"

"We know," Claude says, as Mira sniffs the air. "We've kind of dealt with it."

"Oh," says Caspar. And then: "Linhardt! Hi!!"

"Hello, Caspar. I’m a prisoner of war."

"Oh, neat," says Caspar, as though that in any way reflects the reality of the situation. Claude feels aggrieved.

"No, you’re not," he says, and to Caspar: "he’s not. He keeps saying this. He actually approached us. And he’s absolutely fine." Mira waddles over towards him, and he pats her head.

"Alas," says Linhardt, "my captors are so cruel. I’m not even allowed the freedom to express myself."

"You’re not a prisoner," Claude says, though he’s not sure why. Linhardt isn’t listening. Linhardt never listened to him.

"You should probably express yourself less anyway," Caspar says, and slings an arm around Linhardt. "Hey, why didn’t you ever respond to any of my letters?"

"You can’t interrogate me," says Linhardt, firmly. "I’m a prisoner of war."

"Yeah, man, everything’s changing," says Caspar, with an all-knowing sigh. "I mean, even I’m not with the Empire any more. Just gotta keep up, you know? Live in the moment, roll with the punches, punch back when he’s distracted by your super sweet roll. Speaking of, wanna hear about the time I punched the Sword of the Creator?"

"No," says Linhardt, his eyebrows retreating into his hairline. "But I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway."

* * *

The remaining Empire soldiers have been gathered together in a group. Marianne and Ashe are providing stretchers and bandages to those that need them, but no one looks too badly hurt. Lorenz has the commander - Ladislava, Claude remembers - under close watch. She's bandaging her wyvern. Tessa, resting to one side, looks almost proud. The dried blood around her jaws has turned her snout red.

"Soooo," Hilda says, sidling up to him. "I guess 'cause we're keeping Linhardt, we should let her go, right?"

"Who said we're keeping Linhardt?"

"Oh, I just thought it would be a good idea, him being one of the Deer and all."

"It's actually a bad idea," Claude says. "I’m going to list every single way in which this is a very bad and completely terrible idea. One, I don’t like Linhardt. Two, actually, nobody likes Linhardt, he's very rude. Three-"

"It's one more person out of the Empire, right?" Hilda asks, cocking her head to one side like Claude is being very stupid. "What's bad about that?"

"What, you think we should deplete Edelgard's forces one by one by bringing them all in under our wing? Come on, I know I'm an idealist, but that's just-"

"So let's kill Ladislava."

"Hilda, I'm not-"

"And why don't we kill Linhardt too, while we're at it?" She folds her arms. "We do this right, Claude, or we don't do it at all. You're the one who keeps telling us that. What's going on?" 

"I had a head wound," Claude says, because it's easier than saying _ I'm starting to doubt my own ability to make those kind of decisions, because I keep getting them wrong_. "I nearly died, Hilda."

She purses her lips sympathetically. "Ok. I'll let you off this once. You don't want to talk about it and I can't make you. But when you do… I'm here. Or Lorenz, or Marianne, or _ whoever_. We're all here for you. It's not some leaderly burden you have to carry alone. We're your friends, ok? We want to help you."

"Ok," he says. "Help me get all of this in a fit state to take it back to the monastery."

They manage, somehow, to limp back. Claude forgoes the horse in favour of a ride in one of the equipment carts. Ladislava glares at him from the one behind, but she doesn't have an axe to pull on him anymore, so she can be Seteth's problem. The rest of the soldiers had given up pretty easily once it had been made clear that they weren't getting their commander back, and Leonie had given a fairly impassioned speech about going back to their homes and families. Claude isn't necessarily convinced they'll all follow her advice, but it's a start.

He leans back against the cart, and gets an eyeful of Lindhart.

"So," he says, "two questions. One, how's my head wound?"

"What head wound?" Linhardt asks. He doesn't look like he's particularly happy to walk alongside. Claude doesn't care.

"Cool. Two, why didn't Ladislava hear Hilda approach?"

"Hmm," says Linhardt. "Externalisation of the principle."

Claude knows some magical theory, but evidently not enough. "Which means?"

Linhardt sighs. "It was like I cast a Silence spell on her, but not on her, around her. Is that simple enough for you?"

"Could you externalise something purely internal?" There's the first inklings of a scheme beginning to hatch in his mind, and that's exciting. Is there any limit to this kind of thing? Not that Lindhart would be interested in what Claude was actually going to do with it, but it never hurts to ask.

"I'm going to change my answer about the head wound," Lindhart says. "Go to sleep."

Claude's body suddenly remembers he was up in the small hours, and then sallied before dawn, so he does. He doesn't come round until they're pulling up at the steps to Garreg Mach. Even then, it's a struggle to get his brain to understand why people are just milling around.

"Sorry," says Hilda, as she helps him climb out onto the front steps. Claude's legs shake as he touches the ground. "But has anyone seen Sylvain?"

* * *

Claude doesn’t know the Garreg Mach township that well. It skirts the monastery proper, providing not just housing and facilities Rhea would never have permitted within her walls, but also tanneries, granaries, merchant exchanges. He’s surprised, earnestly surprised that it seems to be bustling, especially considering he’d set half of it on fire two months ago. 

He also has no idea where Sylvain would be. He could search every doorway and alley in this section, or he could be smart. There's plenty of noise and light from a nearby tavern, albeit one of the seediest taverns Claude has ever seen. There’s so much paint peeling off the sign he can’t even see what it’s called. Disturbing looking puddles linger around the door.

There's got to be someone in here who's seen something. He takes a deep breath and pushes through the door. Inside it’s smoky and dark, and stinks of warm bodies and stale beer.

Claude focuses on breathing through his mouth as he acclimates. He sees Pallardó, for a moment, and Pallardó looks horrified before melting back into the crowds. There's a balcony at the back, accessed by a narrow staircase, and Claude can at least try to get a better view. This was a terrible idea. He's amazed he hasn’t already been robbed.

Upstairs, the throng clears, and there’s a half-balcony overlooking the main area. Claude feels lost, physically, mentally, emotionally. Why is he here? How did he think this would be helpful?

The throng of bodies moves like a wave, but there's no sharp red hair, no armour. At the edge of the room, a serving girl is raising her hands, stepping back from a table. There’s a brief lull in the general noise, and her voice carries, sharply, drawing Claude's attention: "I think that’s enough-"

The man at the table stands up, and- it’s Sylvain. It’s unmistakably Sylvain. He pushes through the crowds, fighting the press of bodies in what feels like the right direction. He should have checked up with Sylvain after the battle. If anything happens to that girl, it’s _ his fault_.

Sylvain is alone at the table, surrounded by cups. A lot of cups. He’s slumped into his hands, elbows akimbo. He looks so pitiful that Claude almost feels sorry for him. Then he opens his mouth.

"So you came back, gorgeous. I knew you couldn’t resist me." His eyes are glazed and unfocused. Claude feels the rising anxiety of something he couldn’t have predicted, doesn’t know how to manage, can't even name. "So, what is it? Changed your mind? You want that crest baby now? You’re all the fucking same."

Claude slides onto the free bench. He doesn't know what to say.

"Ha! I knew it, you- huh?" Sylvain blinks. "Claude?"

"Looks like you’ve been here a while."

"Yeah," says Sylvain, and then frowns. "Wait, no. It’s not even sundown. Is it? I just stopped on the way back from the battle, just to clear my head…"

Claude’s starting to feel worry like a black pit opening under his feet. "It’s well after sundown," he says, quietly. "You’ve been missing for a couple of hours."

"No," says Sylvain. "No, it can’t be. I know I lost a few days between Charon and Blaiddyd, but I'm not. It's not."

"You lost days? How?"

"I don’t-" he screws his eyes shut tightly. "I don’t know. One minute I was in a tavern, for the night, and then I wasn’t-"

Claude remembers reading a particularly sanctimonious treatise commissioned by the Church. _ Although Not Considered a poison of particular Effect, the effects of Alcohol are of note to any scholar of this pursuit. They are as Follows: a feeling of Inebriation and Euphoria, impaired Functions of mobility and speech, and the Loosening of Strictures upon the Stomach may be observed in a short duration after imbibing. Abuse of Alcohol in strong Doses over sustained Durations can be seen to cause impaired Memory, changes to the Individual's Personality such as Irascibility, loss of Consciousness, Dependence upon the substance. In Most Extreme cases, it can cause Abnormalities in the body, Organ Failure, and Death. _

"How long has this been going on?"

"I don’t know," Sylvain says, looking into his cup. "I thought I had it under control. It’s war, you know? It’s horrible. Everyone is doing something to survive it. I don’t see why this is such a big deal."

"Sylvain, when did it start?"

He looks small and lost. "I guess it started after we- when Miklan…"

Claude’s heart stutters in his throat. This is all his fault. He should've stopped Sylvain going to Myrddin. He's brought it all flooding back. "That was five years ago."

"Yeah," Sylvain says, blankly. "Yeah, I guess it was. I just. I needed to be numb. I couldn’t think about it." His hands shake as he drains the cup. "Sorry. I guess I… might not be coping as well as I thought I was."

That seems obvious. "Have you talked to anyone about this?"

Sylvain doesn’t look up. "I’m talking to you, aren’t I?"

"I can’t… I don’t know how to help you. You need to tell, I don’t know, the professor, or someone like-" Who drinks? Who would understand? Despite how much they might need her, he hasn’t heard a word about Manuela since returning to Garreg Mach, and there’ve been no choir rehearsals led on wavering feet, no instructions given with sour breath. Jerault had been famous for his drinking, but he- "the Knights. They’ve seen a lot." 

They can’t be less help than Claude.

Sylvain sighs, and reaches for another cup. "I’ll think about it," he says, heavily. "Oh." He tilts the cup up and over. It’s empty. A single drop drips out.

Claude’s had enough, seen enough. He stands, and reaches across to pull Sylvain to his feet. "Okay," he says, "okay, come on, easy does it-" Sylvain is a dead weight, but he lets himself be pulled. The crowd that pushed back against Claude parts much more easily for a big man who’s clearly pretty far gone, even if he is having to be led, and Claude gets them out of the door with speed.

The night air is crisp and clear. Claude tries to breathe slowly, letting the smoke and smells of the tavern filter out as they walk. Sylvain lolls against Claude’s side, but manages to keep pace, and it’s pleasantly quiet as Claude winds them back towards the Monastery. 

"Hey," says Sylvain, lifting his head to look at Claude with unfocused eyes. "Thanks. For this. You're a good guy, you know? And I know it's like, everyone thinks its stupid, or whatever, but… your beard is fine."

"Thanks," says Claude, without meaning it. "I'm sorry for bringing you today. I should've thought about what it might mean, for you. I didn't know."

"S'alright. S'stupid, but. I can trust you," Sylvain says, slurring just a little. "You've got me now."

Claude tightens his grip on Sylvain's waist. "In a strictly literal sense."

Sylvain chuckles, wetly, and rests his head on Claude’s shoulder. 

Claude decides against the stairs, and drops Sylvain off in what used to be Dedue’s room. It’s right next to Teach’s, which will probably be convenient if Sylvain tries to die during the night. Also, it’s not like it’s going to be used for anything else. He arranges Sylvain on the bed, trying his best to remember how to position someone so incapacitated.

Sylvain is asleep by the time he's done. Claude does knock on Teach’s door in passing, before he can talk himself out of it. 

There's one more light on as he walks down the row, which reminds him he has one more thing to do before he sleeps.

He knocks to be polite, but he doesn’t think the occupant truly deserves it. There’s no answer, but he knows Linhardt well enough to say he almost certainly made a beeline for his former bedroom; and there he is, already seated at the desk, reading something heavy in the wavering candlelight.

Claude clears his throat.

"Oh, Claude," says Linhardt, looking at his book. "I'm not interested in being questioned right now. Do come back later, or actually, don't."

"I'm not here to question you," Claude says, but he does cross his arms defensively. It's been a long day. "Didn't you insist you were my prisoner? How are you dictating terms?"

"I thought you made it very clear that I was here of my own volition. Close the door as you leave, there's a draft."

"I'm not leaving."

Linhardt finally looks up at him. "Then you can answer a question I've had for a long time. Did House Riegan legitimise you when they found out about your crest, or was that a happy coincidence? I mean, there can’t be too many noble bastards running around with such a clear tie to the Great House of Riegan-"

"Stop being difficult," Claude says, "for one minute. Please." Linhardt looks affronted, like Claude actually said _ stop breathing_. He's quiet, though. "I have a project for you. Actually, a couple of things. Of course, you'll have to work on them alone, and spend a lot of time in the library doing independent research…"

He lets Linhardt have a moment for the sentence to sink in. 

Claude can see the hunger in Linhardt's eyes. He recognises it from passing in the library in the small hours of the morning, when they'd look at each other for a moment and never mention it again. He knows it from his own face. The world is full of strange and fascinating mysteries, and he sees in Linhardt a shared desire to get their fingertips into them and pull them apart. Like Fódlan’s crumbling hierarchies. Like the Church. Like Teach. Neither of them have ever felt comfortable with things they don’t fully understand.

Claude's struck, suddenly, by a regret that he'd let those moments dissipate, that he'd never tried to reach out and make friends. Hadn’t Teach complained that Linhardt kept trying to break into the Holy Tomb? There’s a drive and passion to him that Claude can’t help but respect.

Then Linhardt sneers at him like he's a particularly noxious slug, and Claude feels the fleeting regret vanish, just like that. "Go on," Linhardt says, with just the slightest mocking tone. "I'm listening."

That's enough. Claude’ll take it. He places Genealogies Volume XIII on the table, and opens it to the page he marked earlier. "Let's start with this. What do you know about the theory behind removing crests?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU TO: Harry "Hazza" Hazard, Birds "Bagof" Birds, Selki "Spooky Selki" Shore and Maeve "No Fun Nickname" Surname. You are the wind under my wings, the wine in my glass, the unnecessary commas in my google docs. You enrich my life.
> 
> !!! Birds (who has been an endless source of support and encouragement and incredible Byleth headcanons) is writing their own fic [**HERE**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21211943/chapters/50498318) and I cannot recommend it enough, it's absolutely incredible. Please, treat yourself, and mash these words of niceness into your eyes.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if you comment or kudos, thanks for that too! It's nice to have a tangible sense of "oh yeah, people actually enjoy this". My brain is in a jar and it's wired to the internet for dopamine. Thanks so much.
> 
> In terms of a story update: Linhardt is the last ~major~ character to join the party for a while (not that his predecessors are all major characters, But Anyway) so I'm hoping to kind of whip through the next month in storytime. Unfortunately, it's Great Tree Moon, and I have no less than three (3!!!!!!!) chapters planned to coincide with the Battle of Grondor, so hopefully I'll have a better sense of whether I'm uploading those together or in bits when I post the next chapter. Which should be in one or two weeks! I don't know yet! Most excitingly, once that is all done, I can actually play my GD game again without feeling guilty I might miss important plot stuff for my fic. Goodbye, BE maddening! I absolutely hate how much the Death Knight moves.
> 
> I'm on tumblr as [wizling](https://wizling.tumblr.com/) and twitter as [vvizling](https://twitter.com/vvizling) if you want updates! Updates!! On social media!!!
> 
> Next chapter: The Inadequate


	8. The Inadequate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude deals with the fallout from the last battle. He also gets a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mild emetophobia warning in this one.

**Great Tree Moon, 1186**

"We need to talk about what happened yesterday," Teach says, and Claude tries to look serious and interested as he stifles a yawn. Linhardt glares at him. Claude decides he's above glaring back.

"I'm so sorry," Leonie says, "I didn't mean to break our promise, but-"

Marianne looks drawn and pale again, like he's gone back five years to talk to the girl who jumped at her own shadow. "Professor, I didn't think it would-"

"Sorry," Hilda interjects, "but do you actually think there was a living person in there?"

Teach hums, and there's a moment of quiet across the room as everyone considers it. "Could we have saved them?"

Claude finds himself looking at Linhardt, and he's not the only one. "What?" asks Linhardt.

"Was there a living person within those Demonic Beasts yesterday? Did we kill them?"

"How would I know?" Linhardt says, innocently. "Just because I'm from the Empire doesn't mean I had a part in these disgusting schemes."

"It's weird crest stuff," Claude grits his teeth. He didn't sleep well enough to be able to deal with this, head buzzing with theory he suspects Linhardt over-complicated on purpose. "You can't say you're not interested in the theory, at least."

Linhardt makes a noise in acknowledgment. "In theory-" Claude knew he couldn't resist the chance to not explain something. "That is, in the strictest literal sense, the writings I've found believe the Demonic Beasts to be made of some kind of living tissue. So you may have killed something living. But living tissue is a broad category, including, I don't know, worms, moss, weeds, and Ferdinand. So it's a rather different philosophical argument to say whether that would be the same as killing a person-"

"I'm confused," Raphael says. "Teach said when the beasts disappeared, some kind of body fell out. Are you saying that was Ferdinand?"

Linhardt looks disgusted. "No. Obviously. Unfortunately, Ferdinand is still here with us."

Lorenz puts an around Ferdinand's shoulder in support. Claude's going to have to apologise later on Linhardt's behalf. "We don't know how Demonic Beasts are made-" and he doesn't look at Sylvain, who has a hat pulled down over his eyes and threw up twice on the stairs. "But it has something to do with crest stones. What if the Demonic Beast was inside the crest stone all along, but they were invisible, and it's only when they're put in a person that we can see them-"

"Don't get hit on the head again," Linhardt snaps. "I don't think you'd survive getting much stupider. That's obviously not true. A Demonic Beast is formed when a crest stone is in contact with an incompatible host." 

Claude's own research had led him to that conclusion, but it's nice to know that Linhardt can't resist correcting him anyway. Linhardt could actually bring a lot to Claude's plans, but for that to bear any kind of fruit he needs to be left alone to get on with it. He needs the Deer to accept Linhardt's expertise as a scholar and researcher no matter what, and if it means Claude has to make a fool of himself in public, so be it.

Lysithea coughs. "What do you mean, incompatible?"

"While the nature of crests themselves still eludes me, it seems obvious that crest stones themselves are a form of highly concentrated crest energy. You all see that when you use your relics, I'm sure I don't need to explain the mechanisms of that form of energy transfer."

Claude hears Hilda whisper _ "what?", _ but Linhardt is in full swing now.

"But when someone doesn't have a crest, what happens? In the simplest terms, the energy has nowhere to go, and that's how the beast is formed. But why a beast? Take a crest like mine, Cethleann. This crest aids with magical healing. How and why would that power become a wild beast? There's so much we still don't know-"

Flayn clears her throat, looking furious. "I assure you, there have been no Demonic Beasts borne from the Crest of Cethleann!"

"I didn't say there had," Linhardt replies, baffled. "But back to my theory. If the crest is carried in the blood, perhaps the appearance of the Demonic Beasts is some historical form of humanity?"

"But that's not what the Church says-" Ignatz says, quietly.

"Oh, yes," Linhardt says, not even looking at him. "Well, the Church is wrong about many things. That in particular. Why would the Goddess in her infinite mercy curse those who have crest stones implanted against their will? Simple logic. But back to this theory of an ancient human-"

"Did we kill them? Yes or no?" Leonie cuts in, folding her arms.

Claude waits for Linhardt to brush her off. Instead, he wilts. "Essentially, I think it's reasonable to conclude that the original person was dead in every way that matters as soon as the crest stone was implanted within them." Linhardt flicks his eyes over to Raphael. "No one died at your hands."

"That's great, right?" Raphael says.

Teach nods. Claude isn't so sure. Implanting crest stones into people against their will? What else isn't Linhardt telling them?

"I'm kind of relieved," Leonie says. "I mean, if someone's coming at me, I'll do what I have to, you know? But it's nice to know we didn't break our promise."

Marianne puts a hand over Leonie's. "We did what we had to, but... I agree. And now we know if it ever happens again."

Hilda grabs Marianne's other hand. "And it will, right? Are we going to keep pushing the Empire?"

Caspar puts his hand up. Linhardt, next to him, already has his head pillowed on his arms. "I reeeeeally don't want fight in Bergliez territory," he says. "My dad's still part of Edelgard's government, and he's super scary. Can we avoid him?"

"Absolutely not," Seteth sniffs. "Our priority needs to be defeating the Empire and rescuing Lady Rhea. We've already searched all of Faerghus. We must push the Empire!"

Dorothea raises an eyebrow. "I don't recall everyone agreeing to that."

"Yeah. There's still fighting in Faerghus," Ashe says. "We've fought back the Empire and secured the borders in the Alliance, but the occupation is ongoing. I think Duke Fraldarius would appreciate our help."

Claude looks to Teach for guidance, but Teach is staring at the banners, lost in thought. Claude has so many questions for Rhea, so much he needs to ask her. Teach probably has even more. He can't rush their reunion. It's probably not the right time to go chasing Rhea, and frankly, if she's survived the five years so far, a few more months won't kill her.

"Linhardt," Claude says, mostly so Caspar prods him to attention. "What can you tell us about the state of the occupation of Faerghus?"

Linhardt yawns. "Nothing."

"But you were part of Edelgard's inner circle," Lorenz says, frowning. "Surely you must have heard something?"

"Nope," Linhardt says, and puts his head back down on his arms.

"So no one said anything to you about_ anything _ they were doing?" Claude can't believe this.

"I try not to talk to people," Linhardt says, muffled by his forearms. "Are we done?"

Claude risks a look around the table. No one is particularly happy. Ferdinand is mimicking Lorenz's indignant posture, all straight back and folded arms. Hilda has her fingers interlinked with Marianne's, white knuckled with tension. What he can see of Lysithea above the face mask and below the blankets is glaring. If his plan is going to work, he needs them to give Linhardt free reign over this project and not worry about the consequences. He'd anticipated a certain level of backlash - Lysithea and Marianne had history with Linhardt, and Leonie and Lorenz had spent enough time with the books to realise they couldn't afford any more idle hands at present - but of course Linhardt would be the person making it difficult.

"Ok," he says. "We don't have to decide our next course of action now. If we do have another run in with the beasts, at least we know the worst of the damage has already been done, and putting them down might be a kindness. I know there are people here who think we need to support Faerghus, and I hear you. I know the Church still has finding Rhea as their top priority. And we still need to shore up our support from the Alliance, especially now that their route to the Empire has been cut off. Why don't we all take a few days to think about it?"

There's a murmur of assent, and when Teach claps their hands to say _ class is dismissed _ people start to file out of the meeting hall. "Not you," Claude hisses, when Linhardt finally looks up. "You stay." Linhardt rolls his eyes, but dutifully returns to pretending to sleep on the war table.

After what seems like forever, they're alone. Just Claude, and Teach, and Linhardt, and Dorothea.

"Lin!" Dorothea coos, reaching out to embrace him. "How absolutely wonderful to see you again!"

"Dorothea," Linhardt says, with what appears to be a genuine smile. "You look well."

"Oh, hardly," she says, her silk skirts whispering against each other as she shuffles with pride. "Just surviving, as I always have. But how are you? How did you end up here?"

"Prisoner of war," Linhardt says, so matter-of-factly Claude almost forgets that's wrong. Dorothea makes a sympathetic noise. "Can you believe it? Months of comfortable seclusion in all the luxuries of House Hevring, only to be taken prisoner in my very first engagement!"

Dorothea's lips twitch into a smile. "You're awful, Lin," she says, affectionately, and reaches to hold his hands. "We must have a proper catch-up."

Linhardt opens his mouth to reply, but Claude's had enough. "Absolutely! But later. Sorry, Dorothea, but I must talk to Linhardt now. Goodbye!"

She looks at Linhardt first, which is unfair, and they clearly have some kind of mental connection because he can't decipher what they're thinking at all from their faces. Maybe all rude Adrestians can do it. Maybe that was Vestra's secret all along. Finally, Dorothea releases Linhardt's hands - although she gives them a little squeeze first - and leaves.

"How funny," Linhardt says, after she closes the door behind her. "I thought she didn't like you."

Claude doesn't have the time to puzzle out what exactly that means. He's got just a few days to formulate a plan of attack against the Empire and the Empire in Faerghus. And if things are coming to a head against the Empire, he needs Linhardt to move fast with his research. Which means some proper motivation is in order.

"Linhardt," he says, with what he hopes is his most winning smile. "What do you remember about the White Heron cup?"

"Hmm," Linhardt says. "I remember being cajoled by the Professor and bullied by you into participating, which was humiliating, and then I remember the judges letting me win out of pity! Thank you for dredging that up, Duke Riegan. The emotional wounds had almost healed."

"I thought you'd like it," Teach says. "You didn't want to fight, and you don't like blood, so I found you a supporting role where. You know. You only dealt with intact people."

"I do appreciate that," Linhardt says, "but I still had to be there out on the battlefield and see it happen. I would've preferred to stay behind."

"But you're good at so many things," Teach says, cocking their head to one side. "We needed you out there." Claude can't help but think back to the day before, Linhardt's cool hand on his head quelling the roaring and the pain. If Linhardt hadn't been there…

"I understand," Linhardt says. "I'm exceptionally skilled. But I didn't join the resistance to relive the most mortifying ordeal of my life. That night was a disaster."

Claude remembers it a little differently. Teach had persuaded virtually everything else to join the Golden Deer at that point, winning them over with a blunt determination Claude could only wish he possessed. So there'd been a very healthy cheer section for the Golden Deer's candidate, and Claude had made sure that anyone who may have wanted to boo would not be encouraged - as that wasn't sporting - but he wasn't going to stop them either. Linhardt, ungainly and cross, had looked rather lost on the stage, despite Teach's best attempts at tutoring. 

But at that point it wasn't about dancing skill. It would have been insulting if Claude had let Linhardt proceed at his own pace after everything Teach had done to not so much level the playing field as remove it entirely. So, he made a few precautionary manoeuvres to ensure victory. For the Golden Deer, of course. The first had been to mix something into Hubert's coffee. Hubert had been suspicious - of _ course _ he'd been suspicious, because Claude suddenly bringing him a cup of his favourite drink the morning of the big dance competition was a very suspicious thing to do - and even the promise that Claude was also offering drinks to Dedue and Linhardt hadn't reassured him. He'd turned down Claude's offer of a strategist's lunch.

Claude had made sure to openly and obviously offer Hubert drinks throughout the day, putting him on edge even as Dedue and Linhardt remained absolutely fine. In fact, Hubert barely drank anything all day, and didn't eat either. That was his first mistake. His second was seeing Linhardt and Dedue drinking from a jug backstage, and listening when Linhardt said _ oh come on, it's just water. _ His third was not believing that. His fate was set when he decided to return to his own quarters for a drink.

Hubert's dance was terrible. His face was contorted into a gruesome sneer, and his limbs shook as he danced, barely holding each position for the required amount of time before scowling and moving onto the next. As a piece of avant garde theatre, or interrogation technique, Claude was impressed. But the White Heron judges weren't.

Hubert's face was green as he rejoined Edelgard on the empty Black Eagles bench.

In Claude's defence, it was a very mild stomach poison distilled from a mushroom. Cramps, flatulence, gastrointestinal distress… nothing too bad. All things that would make it very difficult to charmingly dazzle at a dance competition, but a precautionary dose of stomach protection mixed into a morning coffee, or lunch, or even drunk immediately beforehand from refreshments backstage would have prevented the worst effects. Claude was really trying to help him by offering him a solution at every turn.

And it wasn't like there was no cost to him! He'd depleted his poison stock by mixing so much of it into the monastery's water. There were a few people he didn't manage to protect, but by the time they showed symptoms it was assumed to be a stomach bug. Seteth had ordered the draining and cleaning of the storage tanks with immediate effect, and Teach volunteered them all without a word of explanation. Life went on, and Claude even dropped by the infirmary to give Hubert a get well soon card with a wink. It was worth it even when Hubert hurled balls of black magic at him as he ran away, and Claude found dead mice in his boots for a week.

Dedue was much easier. Claude waited until he was on the stage, moving through the motions stiffly but with a kind of grace. As Dedue turned to face him, he flicked his eyes towards Dimitri and winked. Dedue didn't panic, or colour, but he did hesitate, and by the time his dance had caught up with the music he was as stiff as a board. Claude had felt a little guilty for that one, because Dedue was beyond pleasant and no fun at all to tease, but then Linhardt was on stage.

Claude had made sure to call, very audibly _ it's ok if you can't do this, Linhardt! There's nothing wrong with second place! _

Linhardt had looked furious, absolutely furious, and when the music started he swept through the dance with a passion Claude didn't know he even had. He watched the judges, Manuela intrigued, Shamir unreadable, Alois clutching his stomach with a frown.

It went 2-1 to the Deer, Shamir voting for Dedue and Alois agreeing with Manuela to get it over with even as the former diva pronounced it _ the worst dance competition in a decade_. Claude was so delighted he'd danced with everyone in the house at the ball, making himself dizzy, going round and round.

"But you won," Teach says. "How was it a disaster?"

"I didn't win fairly," Linhardt says. "I mean, I was the best, unquestionably, but no one should have expected Dedue to dance and Hubert was ill-"

"-Not ill," Claude says. Teach's face immediately falls, the movement so natural it takes a moment for them to blink and pull it back into a child's exaggeration of despair.

"Claude," they say. "You said you didn't-"

"Ah," he says. "Well. That might have been a lie. I'm sorry for poisoning Hubert. And I'm sorry for lying about it too. I just- I thought you'd be upset, that's all. You never liked this kind of thing."

"I am upset," Teach says, completely flat. "I'm very upset with you right now, so I'm going to go. Please start preparing the routes for the Empire and Faerghus. Linhardt, whatever Claude asks you to do, be ready to dance for the next battle." They walk out.

"I suppose that was your plan all along," Linhardt says.

"Not really. I thought if I just threatened you enough with it you'd double down on your research."

"Oh," says Linhardt. "I can still do that?"

Claude makes a noise of assent. Planning routes to the Empire and Faerghus will be a big job. He needs maps, supply lists, schedules, he needs to visit the wheelwright and the blacksmith and the ostler. He needs travel memoirs, topographies, maps that show road quality and stopping places. He doesn't even know which part of Faerghus or the Empire they plan to attack.

When he looks up, Linhardt is still lingering by the door. 

"Did you really poison Hubert for me?" 

"For the Golden Deer," Claude says, reaching for the maps he'll need to start planning their route. "Not for you. Close the door on your way out."

When Claude next looks up, he's gone.

* * *

He's almost got it by the time Judith returns. What they should do is go north out of Garreg Mach towards Blaiddyd, but the Empire has almost certainly shut down that road, so if they go east first and then cut through Daphnel and Galatea territory… It'll take a while, but it gives them an unexpected angle, and there's no reason they can't split their forces and distract any force on the main roads to eventually meet at the capital. He's putting the final pin in his map when Hilda bashes through into his office.

"Lady Daphnel wants you!" There's a wild thrill in her eyes, like she's being hunted. Or the fear of Judith is upon her.

He picks up the pin. "And she got you to come tell me that? Ok, where is she?"

"Here," Judith snaps. "Thank you, Miss Goneril, you're dismissed." Hilda snaps the most competent salute Claude has ever seen her do, catches his eye and whirls off.

Judith closes the door behind her, and slides the bolt home with a click. Claude is starting to regret not installing a ladder at the window.

"Hello," he says, "you're back in one piece."

She marches over and grasps his head. "Where is it?" she snaps, turning him into the light. "I can't see a mark-"

The memories wash over him like with dread. The pain, the blackness, the ringing in his ears. The uncertainty - that had been the worst part. Helpless, defenceless, having to rely on the hope that someone was coming for him, and someone had seen…

He twists out of her grip. "Relax. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. The archbishop was worried, your soldiers were worried-"

"And I was healed, so I'm fine. Here, look. No mark." There's a scab, but Claude can only see it when he pulls his hair back. He'd checked for infection that morning in his mirror, but the wound was dry and clear, the skin around it cool. He probably owed Linhardt his thanks, but they seemed to be avoiding each other. Claude had been expecting him late in the library at the very least.

Judith pulls his hair back, blunt fingers pressing at his scalp. "I cannot believe-" she says, and stops with a sigh. "You have no idea how precious you are. But you're so reckless. When I heard, I…"

She smooths his hair back down, tucking the wayward tails behind his ears. Her hand is warm and firm. He leans into it. "There was a moment," she says, quietly, "when I thought I was going to have to march on the Empire myself, and take the heads of everyone who laid a finger on you. If you get hurt again, Kha-"

"Don't," he says, ears burning. "Just- don't."

Judith sighs again. "Yes, yes, of course, as your Grace commands."

"And don't do that either-"

"What? Worry about you? Am I not to do that, when you send me off to the other side of the country and get your head split open by some unholy beast? Then what should I do, oh great Duke Riegan? I can't lose you."

Her hand trembles against his head. He feels his knees start to buckle. "Hey," he says, trying to find his voice. "I'm fine, aren't I? I'm still here." He reaches up, and holds her hand to his head.

"Next time-"

"It won't happen again," he says, wishing he meant it. "I don't want to get hurt, and I don't want to worry you. But Teach was there and we had healers and I keep telling you, I'm fine, Mira's fine, everything's fine, ok?"

"No," Judith says, "but that's who you are. Next time, let me be there. Let me help you."

"I'll try," he says. "Tell me how you got on."

"What's to say? It was fine. Count Gloucester mustered all his knights for an Almyran invasion force he never realised didn't exist. We were actually watching him from a wood when he heard the bridge had fallen and his _ face _-!" She looks over at him. He doesn't like Count Gloucester, has never liked him, but there's a certain amount of professional respect between them, and Claude needs to keep that if he's going to be able to look him in the eye at the next roundtable. Judith sighs. "Don't look so dour. He's unharmed, as we promised, and any damage done in Gloucester territory was his own work. You should expect a formal letter of allegiance very soon, though."

The relief feels like a weight off his chest. "So Ameera didn't…"

"Ameera? Ameera was running messages for me in Daphnel territory. No, this was _ his _ work." Claude feels his heart stutter, but Judith doesn't notice. "He asked after you, by the way. Of course, I didn't know that you were bleeding out on some miserable bridge somewhere-"

"I'm not going over this again-"

"-so he thinks you're doing well. I don't think he understands but he's proud of you. Even if he doesn't say it. As am I, by the way." He glances up at her, and she's smiling, genuinely smiling. "Even if you try my patience and drive me mad with worry. You've managed to find good people, trustworthy people, and it looks like they'll follow you through anything. They're supporting you even though I don't understand what you're trying to achieve here. You should hold onto them."

She strokes his hair gently, and he feels his eyelids start to droop closed. "We all want peace," he says, leaning into her. "A real peace, that lasts. Unification, and justice, and peace."

She makes space for him. They're of a height now, he notices, even though he always thinks of himself as smaller. How long has it been since he really had to look up to her? He rests his chin on her shoulder, and she puts her arms around him.

"Peace, huh?" Judith says, speaking into his hair. "You're not the first one to fight for that. Although, back in my day we used to say _ fighting for peace is like fucking for- _".

Claude pushes back, ears burning, and she laughs. "Still so sensitive! Oh, don't get embarrassed, it's rather sweet. Children your age aren't always so modest."

"Please," Claude says, feeling his flush spread and turn his whole face red. "Let's talk about something else."

Judith gives an appraising look, and he gets ready to slink away behind his desk. "What's your next move?"

"We have two options, basically. The Church wants us to continue pressing the Empire, and extend the search for Lady Rhea, but the Kingdom-"

"Have you received an official plea for help from Duke Fraldarius?"

"Well, no, but he sent a formal treaty, and I thought it might be better to respond in person."

Judith makes a noise of interest. "So what are you thinking? You'll aim for Blaiddyd next?"

Claude's reaching for his maps when someone starts hammering on the door.

"I definitely have not been eavesdropping," Hilda shouts, "but there's someone here to speak to us, and I can't find the professor anywhere, so Claude, can you-"

He looks at Judith, but he's already turning to leave, and she waves him off. "Go," she says, still smiling. "I'm sure I can read your maps by myself."

Hilda grabs his arm as soon as he's through the door. "I didn't hear anything, and I didn't look through the keyhole and see anything, and I'm definitely not saying anything is happening but I can't believe you're doing that with the Lady Daphnel and _ you didn't tell me- _"

It's good that Claude was just starting to feel normal again, because that stops him dead in his tracks. "Uh," he says, very eloquently. "What?"

Hilda glances around, and drops her voice to a hiss. "You know! Embracing her, and stuff!"

Claude's mind is blank, for just a second, and then it fills with horrible possibilities like a bottle of ink dumped in water. "Wow. That's not even close to being true."

"But I saw it!" Hilda says, voice rising in pitch to a wail. "And you didn't tell me!"

The corridors are still clear. The nun who stands in the corner tutting at everyone is clearly having her lunch. There's a short moment where Claude doesn't trust Hilda, and then a longer one where he does. It's right, isn't it, that he's found good people? People he can trust? People he should hold on to? People who deserve the truth, no matter what.

"It's not that," he says, and leans down to whisper into her ear. "Lady Daphnel is… She's like family. We've just… we've known each other for a long time, basically my whole life, and she heard about the battle and was worried about me. That's it."

Hilda's shocked, but she's quiet. "Where do you want me to go?" he asks. Her mouth opens and closes.

"The Reception Hall," she says, finally. "Before Seteth gets there."

He sprints off, leaving her behind.

* * *

Claude almost doesn't notice their visitor. She's standing by a pillar she's stood by many times before, and he almost sees and dismisses her face as he walks past. It's the haircut that stops him.

"Ingrid," he says. "This is a surprise."

"Oh, Claude," Ingrid says, her mouth a thin, firm line. "I guess you'll have to do. I need to speak to someone urgently. The Kingdom's forces are moving through Galatea territory and we need your help."

* * *

"I don't see what I need to explain," Ingrid says, for the third time, staring across the table and crossing her arms in front of her. The war council, hastily assembled, stare back. "Unidentified forces flying the old Kingdom's flag have been seen in Galatea territory, and they're heading towards the Alliance. If you can't help us stop them, I can't guarantee they won't attack you. And House Galatea can't do anything to fend them off on their own."

"I don't get it," Hilda says, swinging her legs. "Why are they flying the old Kingdom's flag? Aren't they, like, super proud of the Dukedom?"

Ingrid pauses. "I don't know if they're from the occupation for certain. I just thought - it wouldn't be anyone else, you know?"

"But the occupation is busy fighting Duke Fraldarius, right?" Claude can't get his head around it either. "Is it possible they won?"

Sylvain stiffens. "Not a chance. They'll never give up. Maybe if every single person in that army died, but not before then. And I'd know."

Ingrid raises an eyebrow. "Would you."

"I can believe it," Ashe says. "Cornelia was constantly recruiting to try and keep them down."

"Did she ever say she might attack the Alliance?"

Ashe flusters. "I wasn't really - I just heard from people who had heard, you know? But it seemed like all her focus was on making the occupation absolute. That's how Ser Gwendal got involved at Ailell. He didn't want to fight them."

"But why use the old flag?" Leonie asks, propping her hand on her chin. "If you're with Duke Fraldarius, use his. If you're with the Empire, use theirs. I don't understand why it needs to be more complicated than that."

Claude stares at Ingrid, who looks slightly uncomfortable. "Is there anything else, anything at all, that you maybe heard from someone who heard, or weren't meant to hear at all, anything you could tell us to explain who they are?"

Ingrid's silent.

Raphael raises a hand. "If they're flying the old flag, maybe they could be ghosts?" Claude doesn't miss Ashe and Lysithea's shared shudders.

"Raphael, be sensible," Ignatz says, softly. "Ingrid wouldn't be asking for help to deal with ghosts." Lysithea shakes her head vigorously.

"Actually," Ingrid says, her eyes widening. "I heard a rumour but it was so ridiculous, I-"

"Tell us," Claude says. "We can tell you all the ridiculous things we've done afterwards, and then we can all feel silly."

Ingrid shakes her head. "No, really, it's nothing-"

It's Sylvain, strangely, who reaches out for her, rests a hand on her arm. Claude hadn't thought much of it when he chose to sit beside her, but something's now stirring about them being childhood friends. "Ingrid, you don't have a letter from your dad or anything. You came all this way because something was bothering you and you wanted to hear our opinions. Don't waste it, ok?"

"I don't waste things-" she snaps, and then, "that's not the point. The point is, I heard something from the villages that it's Dimitri leading them, and they're saying anyone who's willing can march with them to attack Enbarr, but that's…"

"That's crazy," Hilda says, tipping her head to one side. "He's like super dead, for sure." Ingrid winces.

"Are you sure?" Claude says, because he's having a ridiculous day as it is. "Did you see the body?" Hilda wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Well, you can't be sure, then, and all I'm saying is-"

"It would suit Duchess Cornelia very well to have the prince disposed of so tidily," Lorenz says. "I will admit I did not think to investigate the rumours at the time, and perhaps that is a fault of mine, but the Kingdom was in such chaos…"

The first few months, there'd been little news. Claude's informant network sent him scraps about battles, mighty clashes between the loyalists and the occupying forces. He'd heard about Dedue's death that way too, whispers passed through so many people that by the time it reached Claude it was ten heavily armoured men from Sreng who'd died trying to free the prince. He'd had to work it backwards from there.

But Dimitri's death had been different. Silence, utter silence from the Empire for months and then they release an official proclamation that the Crown Prince was tried and found guilty for murderous treason. Claude had noticed that on that very same day Acheron had started bleating about there finally being peace in the Dukedom, and how inconsiderate it was for Duke Riegan to throttle fair and legitimate trade with Adrestia now that she controlled both of their neighbours. Claude, distracted by the weight of the dying former Duke's shadow, hadn't really given it a second thought. It had seemed interesting, though, so he'd squirreled it away for later study. He's grateful for that now.

He blinks, and realises everyone is looking at him. "Ok," says Leonie, leaning back. "I can almost hear your brain working. What's on your mind?"

"It's just… I told you all about Dedue, didn't I? I heard that from my sources in Faerghus. But when we heard Dimitri had been killed, that came from the Empire. And Lorenz, do you remember on that day-"

"-Acheron already knew," Lorenz says, his eyes widening. "Yes, I remember."

"It's too tidy," Claude says. "No real news could possibly travel that fast. I don't know what actually happened, but it looks like Cornelia definitely spread the story about Dimitri herself. Whether he was still her captive, or if he had managed to escape… She definitely wanted everyone to think he was dead."

There's quiet around the table. Dorothea can't meet Claude's eyes; he wonders if she had a hand in writing it. Linhardt also doesn't, but his head is pillowed on his arms, feigning sleep. Probably so he doesn't have to talk to Claude, who he's still avoiding. Caspar and Ferdinand look shocked, as does Ashe, who's gone so pale his freckles stand out like inky dots. The Golden Deer are digesting it. Claude's shared his suspicions, but he needs some proof before he can change their entire plan of action.

"Seteth," he says, carefully. "Did any of the Knights searching for Rhea in Faerghus have an encounter with anyone who matched Dimitri's description? Tall, blond hair, wore a lot of blue, barely controlled rage?"

"I would have to ask around," Seteth says, frowning. "I must admit that I had other priorities when taking the reports."

"Anyone else, then? Anyone been in Faerghus at any point over the last five years?"

Leonie's brow wrinkles in concentration. "I didn't see anything, but one of the mercenary jobs I did was for a village near Conand Tower. There were rumours of a wild golden beast attacking the troops that patrolled at night, and the people thought they might be the next target. I was there for a month, but I didn't encounter anything out of the ordinary. Just a few Empire soldiers with lance wounds, but there were more than enough unhappy people in those parts."

"Some of my children," adds Dorothea, "were from Fhirdiad, occupied Fhirdiad. They had the most horrible stories when they arrived, really ghastly stuff. I thought they were exaggerating, or repeating some lurid tale, but…"

"I didn't see anything," Sylvain says, "but I had a couple of nights- _ ow!- _ ok, one night with a girl who'd been with the Fraldarius camp for a couple of weeks, and she was going on about Duke Fraldarius bringing in a wild thing and smuggling it over the border to Sreng, and I told her that was crazy, and I was like a son to him, and he would have told me, and then she was like _ why are you crying _ so I said-"

"Shut up," Ingrid says. "You've made your point."

Claude feels another speech coming on. "I know none of this feels conclusive, but-"

"Dimitri's alive," Marianne says, quietly. "We were friends, once. He was kind to me. After everything, I… I prayed for him, every day. That the Goddess would keep and protect him. And that if she couldn't. If he wasn't strong enough. That she would send me a sign. But she never did."

"Marianne, that's…"

"I know," she says, and looks at Claude. "You don't believe. But I've seen the way the Goddess works in the world, and I know she would have told me, if he… So I believe it. He must be alive."

Hilda loops her arm through Marianne's. "Isn't the fact that we're all here, now, proof? Didn't you promise Teach we'd make our own miracle? Maybe Dimitri's done the same, I don't know. Teach? What do you think?"

Teach, who'd been absent, is standing in the doorway. Dust motes swirl in the light around their hair. "Hello, Ingrid," they say, and give her a little bow. "I think we should join with them, and focus our attacks on the Empire."

"They're already in Galatea territory," Ingrid replies, shaking her head. "We'd never make it to the Kingdom in time."

"Then we don't go to the Kingdom." Claude feels the new plan sparking and connecting in his brain. He races around his mental map of Fódlan, noting roads, bridges, plains. "They're heading for the Empire, right? Why don't we let them? We've got control of Myrddin, after all. And they'd only be going through Daphnel and Gloucester territories. We can send out warning to let them through."

"For what purpose?" Lorenz asks.

Claude can't explain the enormity of it. He's wasted two days thinking about Fhirdiad, when he could have been doing this. Thank whatever higher powers might be out there that at least he's been preparing for a long march.

"To meet them partway," he says, chair scraping as he rises to his feet. "On a battlefield of our choosing, well away from Alliance territory." He must be grinning. He can feel it stretch his face.

"Pack your bags, everyone! We leave tomorrow for Gronder Field."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Mae, thank you Birds, cheer squad extreme, most constant supporters. I owe it all to you.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I don't think I have many notes for this one, other than that Judith is misquoting George Carlin if you were desperate for the full saying. Hey did anyone else spend most of FE16 thinking "and they're going to explain how the Demonic beasts work........ now!" Please excuse my hastily cobbled together explanation - unfortunately at this point I'm more invested in something that upholds the internal logic of this story rather than adheres perfectly to the text in the game.
> 
> Right! Next chapter! Next chapter is, of course, pre-Eagle and Lion, and I will try and get that one up on its own, hopefully within the next two weeks. Then there's two for the battle itself (no prizes for correctly guessing the recruits, unfortunately) which will probably go up together, but I'll have a better idea of what that'll take once I'm done with the next one.
> 
> Thank you for reading again, and I am still on the socials at [wizling on tumblr](https://wizling.tumblr.com/) and twitter as [@vvizling](https://twitter.com/vvizling)
> 
> Next chapter: The Deserters


	9. The Deserters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Encamped at Gronder, Claude prepares his schemes.

**Great Tree Moon, 1186**

"Ugh," says Hilda, stretching out her arms. She doesn't seem bothered that the ground is still wet with dew, flopping next to Claude as soon as her work shift ended. "I don't get it. Why are we here so early, anyway? There's no sign of the Kingdom or the Empire at all."

"That's the point," Claude says. He might be beaming. He didn't think the trek and subsequent camp would be so invigorating, but he feels fantastic. For once, he's not having to react to what his opponents are doing. He can finally take control. He's thought from the beginning that the only way they could possibly make it through would be if he could be the war's conductor, make everyone dance to his tune. Now he can put that into practice. 

Hilda has a streak of mud on her cheek. "I just don't get it. We've been here for a couple of days because you said you needed to prepare the battlefield, but we haven't even started yet!"

He crouches down, looking at her, and wipes the mud off her cheek. "Hilda," he says, "don't you trust me?"

"Ugh," she says again, and buries her face in her arms. "I do, I'm just… I'm so tired of digging latrines."

"You've done that once."

"And that was enough! Can't you find something better suited to my talents? Ooh, what if I became your personal cheerleader?"

He ruffles her hair, sending strands of her ponytail flying. "I'll see what I can do. But Leonie said you did amazing work today."

"She's a slave driver," Hilda mutters, darkly, but she has to look up to smooth down her hair. "Hey, it's super beautiful here."

They've set their camp back towards the mountains at the north, tents and small fires dotting the foothills. It's back from the field proper, partly because Claude doesn't want everyone caught up in the fighting, and partly because he has plans for the field itself. From their vantage point, the Gronder plains glow in the morning light, and the sky stretches on forever. He shifts and sits back next to her.

"See," he says, not looking at the fortifications in the centre. It could almost be a normal field. "It's not all bad, is it?"

She puts her head on his shoulder. "I guess not. And being able to share a tent with Marianne is really nice…"

He's digging trenches before he remembers he'd ensured there were more than enough tents for everyone, anticipating a few extra strays. He pauses, resting on his shovel as he digests this. Good for her. Good for both of them.

Leonie taps him on the shoulder, and he gets back to work.

* * *

Claude doesn't knock on the door to his own tent, because that would be stupid, and it's his tent anyway, and you can't knock on a cloth door that's hanging open, rippling gently in the breeze. He does cough, though, because he's a gentleman and an exemplar of good manners in all things.

"You can come in," Linhardt says. He sounds surprisingly relaxed and cheerful, so Claude pushes the cloth aside with no small amount of trepidation. Marianne is holding a bracelet, frowning, but as far as Claude can tell the fussy, complicated ensemble is essentially complete.

"You look like seaweed," he says, unable to stop himself. Marianne freezes, eyes widening.

"I think I've left something in the pockets," Linhardt says, frowning. "Oh yes, there it is." He makes an obscene gesture at Claude.

"That's very immature," Claude says, trying to bite back laughter. "Aren't you meant to be graceful and go with the flow? Like kelp in the current."

Marianne makes a noise, but it doesn't sound like disagreement. "It does look like the water in Derdriu."

"_ Et tu, _ Marianne?" Linhardt asks, reaching for the bracelet and securing it around his wrist. "This is already causing immense mental distress. I hardly need you to make it worse." He's smiling, though, and he twists the last few accessories into place himself, fussing with their orientation.

Despite the unfortunate shade, it's a good fit. Linhardt is roughly as willowy as Claude remembers him being during the academy, and clothes still seem to hang off him rather than get filled out and worn. But the dancer's costume is one of a kind, according to Manuela, fabrics woven with strands of energising magic, and it looks like they won't have to do too many alterations to make it work.

"Is that really the same costume?" he asks, even though that's a stupid question and he knows by now that a stupid question will only get a stupid answer. He seems to keep being stupid in front of Linhardt, and rarely on purpose.

"Ah, the ship of Theseus," Linhardt says. His eyes focus somewhere above Claude's shoulder, and he launches into lecturer mode. He just can't resist telling Claude when he's got something wrong. "What an interesting question. In one sense, yes, but in another, what would make it _ not _the same costume? If the threads are all replaced, does it remain the same garment? Fascinating stuff."

"Super fascinating," Claude says. "Hey, how many moves do you actually remember?" It's not enough to just wear the costume, after all. And a dancer who can't dance is about as much good as a broadsword for Lysithea, or a novel for Raphael, or a reasonable expectation for the minimum account of functional effort from Linhardt.

Linhardt might not be listening. "But the broader question is how do we quantify continuity and change? Are you and I the same people we were in the Academy? Is the professor?"

Marianne makes eye contact with Claude. She doesn't roll her eyes, because she has good manners, but her eyebrows twitch slightly downwards, and Claude knows that means that's about all she can take. "Speaking of them," she says, firmly. "You should go to find them. They wanted to know when you were ready."

"Another day, another task," Linhardt says. Claude thought he'd been in a particularly good mood, but now he's not sure, and Linhardt's looking a little put out. He thought he'd made it clear that Linhardt couldn't refuse to do everything on principle. "I'm a prisoner of war, you know. Forcing me to do all these menial tasks must be some kind of breach of something- oh, _ fine_. I'll bring them back when I find them. You look like you're cooking up a scheme, and I don't think anyone else could stop you."

Marianne goes to the door after he's gone and watches for a moment, her mouth one thin line. When she's satisfied Linhardt is gone she ties the tent closed.

"I'm getting nervous," Claude says. "Is everything ok?"

Marianne makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat. "It's fine, it's just- I don't want anyone to overhear."

He reaches for her, and she takes his hand, drawing him into the centre of his tent. He can't deny that he's concerned, his pulse juddering and jumping in his wrist. She reaches up with her free hand, and places it on his upper arm. He stares at it.

"Do you remember," Marianne says, "when you found me talking to Dorte, back in the Academy?"

Her nails are clean and short, even here. "I do," he says, only slightly overstating it. "He was that horse you liked, right?"

"He's a very good friend," Marianne says. She moves to take his other hand, and he finds himself looking at her face. She's looking at him intently. "You can't tell anyone, please. Promise me, Claude."

"I promise, but… what? Tell them what?"

Her thumbs glide over the backs of his hands. "I didn't just... talk to Dorte. I _ talked _ to Dorte, and to the cats and dogs, and the birds and-" she stops, flustered.

"Anyone can talk to animals, Marianne-"

"-and they talked back to me. All my life. I don't know how, or why, but I've always been able to understand what animals are saying to me." Her thumbs still, but her arms tremble.

Memories fractured into discordant images spring to the front of his mind. Marianne warming up Mira in the stables, telling him she was complaining about the cold. Marianne seemingly mediating an argument between a dog and a cat over one of Teach's forgotten fish. Marianne bringing Claude lunch, saying _ a little bird had told her he'd been staring at the books all morning, and needed a break_. There had literally been a bird on her shoulder, whistling away. He'd thought she was just being twee.

"Oh," he says, realisation striking him like a wet fish. "Oh, Marianne, that's- that's_ amazing _-"

She flicks her eyes down, looking at his boots. "I never thought so. When I was young, it was… it felt as normal and natural as breathing, and I thought it was something that everyone could do… Until I told someone, and they looked at me, like-"

"Like you were less than them," Claude finishes. Familiarity settles in his stomach like a stone. "And you were embarrassed, and you didn't understand-"

"Yes," Marianne breathes. "And I felt like I needed to smother that part of myself, that it was dangerous-"

"But it stayed part of you-"

"And I became someone who… was scared, and frightened, and I thought-" There are tears glistening in the corner of her eyes. "I hated myself, and I thought everyone else did-"

He grips her hands. "Marianne, you're not- we love you, we could never hate you-"

"I know," she says, softly. "I do know. You show me so much- I'm trying to remember this, I really am." She squeezes his hands softly. "I thought you'd understand. For many reasons." She meets his eyes, and she looks… scared? Proud? Resolved? "But if you think it's something amazing… then I'm done hiding it. And I want to help. So, please, if I can-"

"I'll think about it," Claude says. He gives her hands one last squeeze. "Promise you I will."

He has a brief flash of resentment that Marianne's guilty secret was something so forgivable, so useful, so unique. That she hid it under their noses for so long, watching and waiting, gauging their reactions before she felt comfortable enough to say. He never had that luxury. Then, of course, he feels bad for resenting Marianne, and letting himself wallow in that moment. Of course it isn't the same. Of course she wouldn't understand, not exactly.

But that's why he's here. That's why he's going to change the world. It's gone on long enough.

Still, talking to animals? Does she understand how they're feeling, or could she give instructions? And is it one to one, or, could she-

"One more thing," Marianne says, "please. Please don't tell Linhardt. He'll assume it's something to do my crest, and-"

She would never know peace again. "Cross my heart," he says, meaning it.

"My ears are burning," Linhardt says, cheerfully, letting himself in. "You must be talking about me. Look, professor, they're going red."

"They look the same to me," says Hilda, pushing Linhardt out the way. "Hey, professor, what've you been doing?"

Byleth pauses, canvas flapping around their legs. "Thinking," they say, eventually. "About this."

"Want to talk about it?" Claude says. He's got the inklings of an idea for their next battle, but it would help to talk it through with someone. He's getting a bit bored of talking everything through out loud to himself. It must be the prompt they need, because they finish climbing in, and toggle the door shut with a flourish.

"We need more supplies," Teach says, seriously. "We can manage for our troops, but when we absorb the Kingdom-"

"_ If _ we absorb the Kingdom's troops," Hilda says, frowning. "And they are actually from the Kingdom, and not some Empire soldiers using their brains for once, or Almyrans who've actually grown some-"

"It doesn't matter. They will come to us," Teach says, voice grave and prophetic. "Sooner or later, they will come. What we are doing is the only way."

"Sure," Claude says. "But I didn't think the supply situation was that bad-" He'd had to make the arrangements on the fly, but he'd been able to salvage a little of what he'd arranged for their journey into the Kingdom. He'd watched the convoy wind towards Myrddin from above, Mira chirping as she found a thermal, and it had seemed both remote and within grasp, tiny and endless. Like a chain of ants on their way to their nest. Like he could reach down and flick it off the road. Then he'd landed to help refit a wheel, and once he was among the carts and wagons he couldn't see the beginning or the end of them. There were so many faces he didn't recognise, now.

"It's not bad," Teach repeats, face unreadable. "But it will be. We need to act now-"

"How? Sorry, professor, you may not have noticed but we're _ kind of _ in enemy territory right now." Hilda's nose wrinkles.

"Is there anyone in the Empire who would help us?" Claude's almost relieved when Teach turns that unreadable gaze onto Linhardt.

"Do you mean my father? I don't think so, honestly. He's not exactly the biggest fan of Edelgard since she removed him from government, and he's never liked Count Bergliez, but…"

"But?" asks Claude, dreading what's coming next.

"I may have stolen a rather large amount of money from him before I left," Linhardt says, without a trace of guilt. "You're welcome. Consider it a gift, or me purchasing my safety, whichever you want. But I'm certain my father is aware of it by now, and no doubt absolutely furious."

There's a lot to unpack there. "Why?" Claude asks, unable to even formulate every other pressing question.

Linhardt thinks about it, for a moment. "Because I could," he says, finally. "And because I thought I was going to have to bribe my way across Gloucester. It's rather excellent timing that you hit Myrddin as I was trying to arrange passage. You saved me quite a bit."

"You're welcome," says Hilda, rolling her eyes.

"That doesn't help solve Teach's problem." Claude needs to say it out loud, to get his thoughts in order. He starts to pace the small space around the tent's interior. "I could send the carts back to Garreg Mach, to load up again, but Great Tree Moon will be over before they get back, and I want to be ready to dismantle the camp and move again if we need to. We're safe at the moment, because the planting is finished and the farmers must be too busy with the new year's calving and foaling to check on the field. So we could reach out to local merchants. But we can't make too much noise or draw too much attention! So we can't buy supplies, we can't steal supplies, we can't ferry over the supplies we already have in Garreg Mach…"

He nearly misses the flash of pink and red as Hilda puts her hand up. "What if we could, though?" He stops, pivots, looks at her. She doesn't fluster. "I could take Tessa and bring stuff from the monastery. Yeah, it's a long way by road, because we have to go through Gloucester and stuff, but if we flew…"

"If you flew," Claude says, slowly, "your enormous, noisy, horribly behaved wyvern, who has no manners, who tried to _ bite _ Mira-"

"Yeah!" Hilda says, brightly. "That's my girl. She's going to love it, I promise."

He's silent, trying to think it over. Hilda pokes him. "Just admit it," she says. "Admit I have a better plan than you do."

He grits his teeth. "_ What if Tessa flew _ isn't a plan, Hilda. Even by air it's an hour or so, and you can't wear her out by running errands so you don't have to fight-"

"Have some fucking faith in me! Sorry, professor. Alright, I don't want to dig toilet ditches. But if anything happens I'll be there. I have people I want to protect as much as you do. And I won't run Tessa into the ground, I'll-"

"We can take turns," Marianne says. "The pegasi are restless. They'd like the run. And they can fly in pairs, to help spread the weight." She looks at him, eyes soft. Did they conspire on this? He takes back all his well-wishes for their future. "Let us help."

"I appreciate it, but I need Leonie where she is-"

"Then I'll fly with Ingrid," Marianne says, surprisingly forcefully. "She won't mind."

"Thank you," Teach says, and stands up to bow. The top of their head brushes against the canvas. "You can also carry messages to the Knights, and Lady Judith."

"Wait," says Claude, "I was going to-"

Hilda's cheeks go pink. "So we can't be couriers, but you can?"

"No-" Claude says, and then stops himself. "It's different, ok, the messages I need to send to Lady Judith are secret-"

"So secret you can't even trust us not to read them? Yikes, I'm sorry I offered-"

"It's not that I don't trust you-" Claude says as Hilda breathes in, her whole face flush with anger.

"Enough," Teach says. Their voice carries the weight of a mountain, and Claude feels his complaints die in his throat. "Claude and Mira can take turns too. We share the work. And we must trust each other, or we will die."

Hilda gives Claude a withering look. Marianne's more concerned. Linhardt is trying to melt into the shadows cast by Teach, who shines with a sickly pale green light.

"Fine," Claude says, looking away to his feet. "That's fine, I just-"

"Great," Hilda says. "I'll get ready to go now. Professor, can you get me a list of what we need?"

They trickle out of his tent, Teach and Hilda talking, Linhardt skulking in their shadows. Marianne pauses at the door.

"Thank you," she says, softly.

"For what?"

"For many things," she says, her smile making her eyes soft and kind. "For being irreplaceable. Please focus on your planning, and let us the rest."

He waves her off, and spreads a scale map of the field Ignatz has been working on flat on the canvas floor.

* * *

War council in the camp is different. After a long argument, they'd persuaded Teach they couldn't bring the council table with them, however much they liked it, so instead everyone perches around the largest fire on logs and stones and, in Lorenz's case, a rather elegant iron chair. Claude's chosen their sentries himself, placed within earshot behind the surrounding tents, but even his perfectly healthy sense of paranoia has to admit that there's not much they can do to protect themselves from being overheard.

Leonie stretches her arms upwards, making her knuckles pop. "Want me to begin? Ok, so, as you may have heard, I did have the privilege to be taught by the amazing Captain Jeralt-"

Hilda makes a furtive hand gesture, and Claude only sees the motion of her wrist in the flickering light. There's a polite smattering of nervous laughter from the group. They've been here a week, near enough, with not even so much as a curious villager coming to see what's going on. Tensions are starting to rise.

"-Who, as a mercenary of unparalleled experience and skill, taught me a trick or two about getting an advantage over your opponent. No matter the fight. So the professor and I have been putting some of his ideas into practice. Ok! Firstly, we need to make the terrain work to our favour, and not anyone else's…"

She's fairly concise, Leonie, when the topic isn't Jeralt, and she definitely knows her stuff. He's pretty sure everyone is able to follow along with the gist of what's been done if not the fine details. Claude's glad they put this much time to the earthworks. With Leonie's guidance, large parts of the field have been made completely impassable with well-disguised pit traps and water-laden bogs. Whichever infantry and heavy armour troops the Empire can muster won't be able to go very far. Of course, there's then the cavalry and the fliers, but he's had a few more thoughts for Marianne on that one, and they're beginning to hash out something solid. Something tangible.

It's a strange feeling, but no matter what the Empire throws at them, and whatever's left of the Kingdom, they just might win it. Even if they barely have time to breathe between the battles. Even if they're ambushed at night. Their camp is well protected, everyone knows their role, and Claude has a sleeve full of contingencies. Even the work he'd found for Linhardt is starting to bear fruit. His chest feels light, buoyant and strange, and he can't work out why until he realises it's the first few glimmers of hope-

"-And that's it," Leonie says, prompting Claude out of his daze. "Any questions?"

Ingrid is close enough to the fire that Claude can see her frown. "This is terrible. You can't be serious about this."

"Terrible? Why? This is survival," Leonie says, before Claude can even open his mouth to intercede.

"This is- this is _ sneaky _," Ingrid snaps. "You're saying you've set traps, and dug holes, and it's not honourable! It's disgraceful!"

Leonie shrugs. "It'll keep us alive."

"But it's not right-"

"Ok," says Claude, seized by the real and genuine panic that they might be starting Garreg Mach's two stubbornest mules on an eternal ideological tug-of-war. 

Leonie cuts him off. "That's fine, Ingrid. We can be wrong, and alive, and you can be right, and you can be dead."

"Fine," says Ingrid. "And I'll die in honourable combat, with mutually understood rules of conduct and dignity, and you can get stabbed in your bed by whomever you upset most that week-"

"Are you gonna kill each other?" Caspar asks. He seems genuinely lost. Linhardt elbows him. "Ouch, Lin. Not cool. But I don't get it. Why can't we do both? Why can't we have traps and not gouge people's eyes out? Or disembowel them? Or do this thing called the blood eagle, where you- _ ow _!"

Leonie glares at Caspar; Ingrid glares at Claude. Claude's going to start having two war councils: one for people he trusts, who are nice to him, and one for everyone who's going to be difficult and make his life hard. If he ends up with just Teach and Raphael in the first group, then that's just how it is.

"We're doing both, and then some," Teach says. "Because we're going to change the world."

There's a strange silence as that settles. The fire pops and hisses. Claude watches the sparks travel in the smoke, dancing and twisting with the wind.

It's Ingrid, finally, who speaks up. "I'm not saying you can't do that, and I'm not saying it's not noble, or just, but… Surely the process is longer than a few months at war? It can't just happen. And people struggle to change, they get set in their ways, they fight back against the new and unfamiliar-"

"Tell me something I don't know," Claude says, biting back a sigh. "Ingrid, no one here thinks it's going to be easy. And it hasn't been. We've had some really close calls. But we're learning, all the time. And to be there, to make it through to the next day, and the next, we have to prepare as best we can."

"That's why we encamped so thoroughly, and so early," Lorenz says. "Whenever the attack may come, from whichever direction, we shall be prepared."

"And preparation saves lives," Ignatz says, his glasses shining in the dim. "Ours, and theirs."

The fire crackles, sending out a fan of sparks. Claude watches them flicker and fade in the grass. He doesn't like to say it, for fear of jinxing it somehow, but there are more and more people rallying to their cause each month, and all the impossible things they've tried so far seem to have worked, more or less. If anything happened to any of them - _ any _ of them, even Dorothea and Linhardt - he can't bear the thought. He's their leader, he has responsibility, and their lives are his priority whether he's facing up against the Empire or chasing bandits out of Garreg Mach. 

"Remember the mock battle," Hilda says, suddenly, twirling her hair around a finger. "When Dedue nearly chopped Marianne's head off? I was so mad and so worried, and I know we were all pretending, and the teachers intervened before anything happened, but... it still felt real, you know? I don't… I don't want that to happen, not again."

"I try not to think about it," Marianne says, and Claude feels a pang of guilt. "My pegasus was much worse off than me, though. Once we got back to the monastery, he…"

"I'm so sorry," Ingrid says. "He must have been a dear friend."

Marianne sniffs, and Hilda pulls a handkerchief out of her cleavage before Claude can even process that she's hiding things in there. "Thank you," she says, dabbing her eyes delicately.

"It's cruel," says Ingrid, looking down at the fire. "All the horses, and the pegasi, they don't want to go to war. But we still ask them to fight and die for us…"

"It is a measure of their nobility," Ferdinand says, very seriously, and Claude's close enough to Leonie to see her fingers twitch like she's just about managing to contain the urge to push him off the log.

"And people die, too," he says, unable to shake the memory of Marianne falling to her knees, hands held up, her pegasus foaming and choking behind her. Manuela and Hanneman roaring orders, Seteth springing into flight from Rhea's side. Ingrid glares at him. "Back at the Academy, we killed people just because we were asked to, and their deaths were justified. If we had died that would have been justified somehow too. We didn't question it. We weren't any better than the horses. But we have a choice now, a real choice, and the only way we can genuinely make a difference is through our actions because just saying it isn't enough-"

"We're going to save Fódlan," says Ashe.

"Right. We're going to make it worth saving," Claude says. Whatever it takes. Whatever he has to do.

"If anyone can do it, Claude can," Raphael says, blurting it out like he's been sitting on this thought for a while. "Whatever we need to do, I'll do it. For Fódlan, and for you guys, and for Maya-"

"For Maya," Ignatz agrees.

"And for every ordinary soldier who's paid to put on a uniform and die," Leonie says, fiercely. "With little training, and awful compensation, and-"

"And so the lords and ladies who see their subjects as disposable are held to account for their actions-" Lorenz interrupts.

"Or got rid of altogether," Dorothea says, with a sweet smile.

Lysithea's eyes are bright and her voice is clear. "Because someone has to do it. There's been enough blood." There's motion in the gloom as people nod. Ferdinand, Hilda, even Linhardt.

Teach stands up, and the fire lights them with every shade of green and gold. "We don't know when things are going to start happening. We need to be ready at any time. But we can do it. I believe in you."

Claude watches his former classmates as they watch Teach, eyes shining with hope in the firelight. They're relying on him. Claude will do whatever it takes to protect them.

* * *

Two more weeks pass quietly, and the nervous atmosphere in camp becomes palpable. Hilda drops a bundle of rinsed linens into one of Leonie's bogs, and to save Leonie teaching everyone in camp every curse she knows at maximum volume, Claude volunteers to fetch laundry supplies from Garreg Mach. The look on Seteth's face when he asks for soap, lye, bucking bats and clothes pegs almost makes it worth it. It's a little worrying that they've been peacefully camped for long enough to need their smallclothes laundering.

He wonders if he's maybe miscalculated, arranged to make his stand miles away from the Kingdom and Empire's collision course. But there's no sign of either. Perimeter scouts show a few rare glimpses of peasants doing peasant things, but there's no indication that there's any military presence in the area. There are a few flashes of strange colour among the trees to the east, but Judith's scouts in Daphnel are keeping an eye on the ragtag Kingdom presence, all flying the old blue banner. He checks with Leonie, who rolls her eyes and says it's probably some game in spring mating finery, then tells him to get back to work. Claude has to go back to his maps two or three times to remind himself that this is the obvious midpoint, the shortest route, that something will eventually happen, he just has to be patient.

Still, it's odd to see their camp, once workman and orderly, covered with makeshift clothing lines and linens flapping in the breeze. It looks homey, settled in a way he never intended. The carts have had their axles dismantled and covered with wax cloth to protect them from the rain. The horses grow fat on the spring grass. They run out of lye.

He sends Ingrid to Garreg Mach for more. The clean linens look almost like white flags. Unfortunately, he has no intention to surrender.

Someone coughs behind him. "Excuse me, do you have a medical tent in this camp?"

Claude doesn't immediately recognise the voice, but it's not like he knows every one of Judith's soldiers by name. He doesn't know who's been injured, either, but unless he needs to raise the alarm it's probably someone who tripped into a pit, or had a bowstring snap while hunting. He turns, fixing on his best Duke Riegan smile.

"Yes, it's right over- Annette?!"

She ignores him. "See, Mercie? I told you they would!"

"I stand corrected," Mercedes - that must be Mercedes, voice still soft, although her face is hidden under veils and a squat brown hat. "You always have a good plan, Annie."

"Aww! Thank you," Annette says, "but I couldn't do it without your support, Mercie."

Mercedes giggles, one hand delicately covering her mouth. "We're a good team."

"The best," Annette says. It's like Claude isn't even there.

"Excuse me," he says. "Do I not get a hello? What are you doing here?"

"Hello, Claude," Mercedes says, dutifully. "Annie, you can explain it better than I can."

Annette breathes in deeply, and balls her hands up into fists. She looks surprisingly well, dress fashionable and only slightly travel stained at the hem. Sylvain's armour had been covered in spots of rust and battle dents. He doesn't think she's been a part of the Kingdom's army for the last five years, but he doesn't know what she would have been doing. And if they have - if he's sheltering deserters - suddenly it's not a minor curiosity, but a major headache, and he's going to have to take responsibility for whatever consequences arise. This is the last thing he needs after promising Ingrid they'd follow all the convoluted and archaic rules of warfare.

"Mercie and I heard there was going to be a big battle, so we've come to help! Not to fight-"

"Definitely not to fight," Mercedes agrees, and Claude must be imagining her glaring at him because kind and patient Mercedes would never do that, right?

"-but to help run your healer's tent. Only! We have a rule!" They nod, although Annette is far more emphatic about it, her hair bouncing on her shoulders. "We're going to help everyone! We're not letting you force us to turn people away if they're not from the Alliance, understand?"

"I wouldn't do that anyway," Claude says, thoroughly baffled. "Wait, you heard there was going to be a battle? Where did you hear that?"

"From my uncle," Annette says. "Oh, excellent, you're washing all the linens."

"Cleanliness is very important for healing," Mercedes says. Claude can feel his head spinning behind his eyes.

"Your uncle? Who's your uncle? Why does your uncle know this?"

"I don't think any of that is important," Annette says, beatifically, and turns to walk off.

"Wait, I do-" Claude starts, but she's gone, Mercedes matching her pace. He has to half jog to catch up with them at the medical tent.

"Dorothea!" Annette says, brightly. "Hello, you're looking well!"

"Hello, lovely girl," Dorothea says, drawing her and Mercedes in for an embrace. "Oh, you both look wonderful, it's been too long-"

"Far too long," Mercedes says. "We had no idea you were here-"

"Oh, I'm just surviving," she says, glibly. "Here there and everywhere, you know me. But how are you doing, why haven't I heard anything, how are you here-"

"My mother got a letter saying to come," Annette says, "and I just happened to run into Mercie in Fhirdiad, and wouldn't you know it-"

"Hang on," Claude says. The tent smells so strongly of caustic soap it burns his nose. "Your mother? I thought it was your uncle. And why did the letter say to come here, to our camp, on this date? This doesn't make any sense-"

"Oh, Claude," Mercedes says, and he has never seen her angry before. "This really doesn't concern you. Why don't you go tell the professor we're here? They might like to come say hello. That would be useful."

"Try being useful," Annette says. "You might like it!"

He looks to Dorothea for support, but she's trying to hide her grin behind her hand. He manages to avoid sticking his tongue out at her, and leaves the tent before Mercedes has the chance to push him. He hums the melody of swamp beasties as loudly as he can, but they're done with him, and that doesn't provoke a reaction of any kind. He does need to find Teach, though.

Why here? Why now? Why aren't they with the Kingdom, why does Annette have two different stories, what do they want from him? It can't be just to run a medical tent. If they wanted to save the lives of their former housemates, they should have come to Garreg Mach for the reunion. Or even a month ago - goodness knows he'd managed to recover the majority of those still living. Wouldn't it make more sense, if they wanted to save lives, to stay with the main force, or join Duke Fraldarius, and take things as they happened?

He needs Teach as a sounding board, or at least to talk it through in front of someone and get it making sense in his own head. There's a tap on his shoulder. 

Unfortunately, it's Linhardt. "Excellent," he says. "I have some good news."

"If it's Annette returning, I already know, believe me-"

"Annette's back? Interesting. No, actually, I wanted to give you an update on one of the things you asked me to look into."

Claude's baffled for a long, tense second before he remembers. Yes, he had, hadn't he? He'd given Linhardt a list of things that had looked promising for battle tactics and for keeping Linhardt's attention away from annoying Claude to death for the sheer fun of it. He feels off-kilter, somehow. Linhardt is watching him, gaze cool and dispassionate. Claude feels himself getting flustered, and he doesn't know why.

"Oh, good, that's great. Which one?"

"The amplification spell," Linhardt says, "for Marianne. I think I've just about got it down, if you'd like to come and see..?"

"Me? Not Marianne?"

"Did I ask Marianne? Or did I ask you?" Linhardt is smiling, though, a strange little half-quirk to his lips. "Of course, you don't have to, but I thought as you asked me to make it my priority, you might…"

"I'm sorry for saying you looked like seaweed," he blurts out. "I didn't mean it in a, a bad way, it was just-"

"Oh, I don't care," Linhardt says, adjusting his hair behind his ear. "In fact, I rather agree, and every second I spend on your research projects is a second I don't have to wear it, so I suppose I might find it in myself to be grateful." His eyes flutter to half-lidded, and Claude's reminded of the academy cats, full of fish, stretched out in a sunbeam. "But if you're busy, I can try and show you now."

"Yeah, no, that might be better, actually, I need to speak to Teach. Could you use it to call them?"

"Of course," Linhardt says, his eyes sharpening again. "Let me just-"

"PROFESSOR!"

The cry echoes across the campsite.

"Whoah," says Claude. "That was fast. But wow, that works really well-"

"That wasn't me," Linhardt says, frowning. The camp is coming to life around them, soldiers throwing open tent doors and rushing towards the source of the commotion. Claude looks at Linhardt, meeting his gaze for a second, and starts running too.

Ingrid is on the ground, but her pegasus isn't, and she's fighting to get him to land and settle, wings beating against the once-orderly lines of canvas.

Marianne's coming from the left, he notices, and he decides to leave the animal to her, grabbing Ingrid's wrist and pulling her to face him.

She looks a mess. Her hair is wild, her dress rumpled, and her cheeks and eyes are pink. What happened? She was only going to get soap.

"Ingrid-" he says, feeling her pulse thump through the underside of her thin glove. "Ingrid, what happened, are you ok-"

"Claude," she says, voice shaky. "Claude, they're here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I don't even have the words to describe it, but inestimable paragon Birds [**drew some fanart**](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EJkYjsSXsAEI19z?format=jpg&name=small) of the most important part of this chapter, and perhaps the most important part of this fic, and every time I look at it they have to add another year to my lifespan just to contain all the joy. They've just wrapped up their incredible fic, and if for some reason you haven't read it yet, you can do so [**HERE**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21211943/chapters/50498318). Please. Treat yourself. Enjoy it. I certainly did.
> 
> I don't have an estimate for the next chapters, because they're all battle which I enjoy writing a lot more, so it might be soon, it might be far. I'm on tumblr as [wizling](https://wizling.tumblr.com/) and twitter as [vvizling](https://twitter.com/vvizling). I will be posting updates there if I hit any major roadblocks along the way. I also posted like, drawings, and stuff, if you like looking at things!
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading, and see you when I see you.
> 
> Next chapter: The Cur


	10. The Cur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins on Gronder Field.

**Great Tree Moon, 1186**

They're the first on the field. Just like five years ago, the Golden Deer take positions on the crest of the northern hill, and wait. Leonie and Marianne shine on their pegasi. Leonie fiddles with a bowstring, running her fingers along it, smoothing it down. Marianne is still. He has Hilda on his other side, Tessa grumbling but compliant. Behind them, Lorenz sits tall and proud on a new horse, jet black and armoured with the same Gloucester livery as his own suit. Teach has even found mounts for Ignatz and Raphael, and they shift and shiver, armour plating clanking in the quiet. Ignatz has bow after bow stored on his saddle. Teach stands at the back with Lysithea, both hovering, Thyrsus and the Sword of the Creator glowing faintly red in their hands. The last person, at the back of the group, far away from the action, is thankfully quiet.

"Remember Ethereal Moon?" Hilda asks. "When we fought those bandits?"

It feels like a lifetime ago. "As far as class reunions go, I think I preferred that one."

"Me too," Teach says. They're almost glowing, green light gathering about them in a pulsating haze. They seem to be doing it more and more, these days. "I don't want to hurt them."

"We won't," says Marianne. "Dimitri is kind, and I'm sure he will see what we're doing, and then-"

"And then Edelgard," Leonie says, her face twisting with displeasure.

"Leave her to me," Hilda mutters. She twirls Freikugel like it weighs nothing.

"Stick to the plan," Claude says, "well, as much as we have one." 

_ The Kingdom army had been sighted from the East. Claude was frozen in place, head buzzing. He needed to get ready - he needed to confirm it for himself - he needed to thank Ingrid, who looked like she was on the verge of tears. His mind span and whirled before it gripped, finding traction, and he gave Ingrid's hands a gentle squeeze. _

_ "Thank you," he said.  _

_ Teach approached at a sprint, and he turned to them. "The Kingdom," he managed, before- _

_ "I know," said Teach, glowing a faint green even in the daylight. "What do you need to do?" _

_ "As far as the field goes, we've done as much as we can-" that was stupidly over-confident, he thought of a hundred things since. "Ingrid, how long before they're here?" _

_ She jolted. "An hour, maybe? Loog and I weren't that far away, but they're all following the roads, so-" _

_ "Thank you," he said, again, and turned away before her face crumpled. He pretended not to hear her as he left, Teach's shoulder doing little to mask the gasping, rattling sobs. _

_ People had started gathering. He balled his hands up, trying to keep them from shaking. "In case you hadn't heard," he said, with the lightest tone he could muster, which wasn't much. Seteth reading from Alois' joke book would have a lighter mood. "It's time. The Kingdom are on their way." _

_ Hilda cleared her throat. "It's not just the Kingdom," she said, eyes darting between something over his shoulder and Claude. "I was stretching Tessa's wings, and we saw-" _

_ "Edelgard," Marianne finished. "Claude, it was definitely her. And she - they're going to hit us both at once." _

_ He'd had a plan for one, and a plan for the other. He hadn't really thought they'd be so unlucky as to face both. There was an unpleasant, heavy silence. _

_ "Okay," he said. It felt like he was in the middle of the dance, and the music had just stopped. Like he was spinning plates, and one had just bounced off the stick. Like the start of a bad fall, when the realisation that there was nothing holding him back was setting in, and there was nothing to do but watch the ground approach him. "Let's get ready quickly, then." _

It feels strange, somehow, to stand with his first classmates only. He's been fighting with their ragtag alliance for the last few months, Adrestians and Faerghans and the dregs of Rhea's personal cult. But Teach asked for it, requesting that everyone who might struggle to stand against their former allies stand down, and one by one they'd all acquiesced. Almost all of them. Teach is dealing with it. Claude's glad for it, somehow. The war has been strange and dark enough.

Ignatz has a hand raised, blocking the glare from the sun. "Claude," he says. "Would you mind having a look at this?"

They head towards a rocky outcropping, and Claude has to leave Mira with the horse to scramble up it. He has to squint, at first, but once Ignatz points it out its unmistakable.

"Demonic beasts," he breathes. Two of them. Big black shapes hulking towards the back of the Empire's army. 

"Edelgard's honour guard?" Ignatz asks. It's almost like a joke, except his voice quavers. He didn't come to the bridge, of course. He hadn't seen what the Empire was doing like Claude had.

"Who knows," Claude says, and claps Ignatz on the back. "Don't think about it. Linhardt said they were dead anyway, so-"

Ignatz's lip twists. "Linhardt says a lot of things," he mutters. "I try not to listen."

"That's wise." Claude squeezes his shoulder, briefly, and Ignatz leans into the touch. "Thanks for telling me. Honestly, I don't think it'll make too much of a difference, but it's good to know."

The Demonic Beasts are sitting just a few paces behind the wetter of Leonie's two bogs, and they've fenced the edges with all the jagged wood offcuts they could find. Barely imperceptible rises in the turf mark the pit traps, each at least eight feet deep. It doesn't really look like a farm field anymore, not to Claude's eyes, not when he knows what they've done to it. Ignatz is studying it too, brow a little furrowed.

"What are you thinking?"

"Oh, only that- that someone should draw it, or paint it, or record it somehow. Beyond a map. Some day, historians might be interested, and… I don't know. I don't know who's going to be left, once it's all over, to remember it."

"Everyone," Claude says, and realises that he means it, heart jumping against his ribs. "We promised, didn't we? No one else falling. No one left behind."

"Hey," Hilda calls. "Linhardt is ready. We're waiting!"

He climbs down without looking back.

* * *

The forces of the Empire and the Kingdom are massing from the east and west. Edelgard is a bright red smear at the back of her formation, troops fanning out to take as much ground as they can. The Kingdom are cramped together, grouped in a tight formation with footsoldiers making a diamond around five figures. There's two heavy knights, one mounted, one on foot, and another mounted man carrying no weapons Claude can see, and-

Dimitri.

It can't be Dimitri. It must be Dimitri. But Dimitri was dead. But he can't be.

The man with golden hair is dressed in black. Dimitri loved blue, and he'd shown Claude the range of dyes that could be made from Faerghan indigo. The man with golden hair has a pelt around his shoulders, grey and white, like a wolf. Dimitri had always worn his Garreg Mach uniform correctly, spurning his right to make adjustments beyond his characteristic gauntlets and boots. The man with golden hair snarls, pushing past the horses surrounding him, pushing a person out of his way -  _ Felix,  _ Claude realises, the last Faerghan general could only be Felix, and a lump forms in his throat. It can't be Dimitri, but it has to be.

Dimitri pushes his way to the very front of his diamond, ignoring the generals that try and pull him back. He's facing the Empire, apparently unaware that the Alliance even turned up.

He raises a spear. Even at a distance Claude can see it glow that sickly red.

"Kill  _ every last one of them _ !" It's loud enough to carry across the plain. They must hear it in the camp. It's a roar. It's a challenge. It's a cry of pain, perhaps, but there's nothing Claude can do about it now. 

The Kingdom soldiers start readying their charge. 

"You should dismount," Marianne says, voice steady. "And hold on to the reins." At the front of their group, like a figurehead, she sits tall in Cethie's saddle and watches their foes. She looks like a saint. Or a sheepdog. Claude slides off Mira, and puts an arm around her neck for his comfort as much as hers.

"Ready when you are," Linhardt says, drawing strange sigils with light. Marianne nods, and kicks Cethie aloft, shining in the light.

She raises her rapier, and the light glints off the tip like a beacon. Linhardt spreads his arms wide, and casts. Claude feels the magic travel past him, rippling his cape.

Marianne lowers her rapier, points it forwards, and opens her mouth.

If Marianne speaks, he doesn't hear it. But he feels it, imbued with magical force, booming out and resonating over the battlefield. The horses prick their ears forwards, swivelling towards the source of the sound. Tessa's nostrils flare. Mira is still in his arms for a second and then she's writhing, wriggling and bucking like an eel caught on a line. He nearly loses his footing just trying to hold on and then it's over, it's suddenly over, and he slumps over her neck to catch his breath.

The field has completely changed. The ranks of cavalry are broken, horses wheeling and bucking, panicked and confused. The pegasus battalions have shed their riders, and are flocking in the sky, desperately calling to each other. The few wyverns are shrieking, twisting themselves into knots and biting at their saddles. One group of empire cavaliers have been thrown into the bog, and as they struggle to find footing they grab at each other, pulling the whole battalion into the mud. It's chaos. 

But the Kingdom keeps advancing.

"I'm off," Linhardt says, suddenly. He brushes his hand against Claude's neck and all of Claude's attention jumps to that tiny point. His heart starts racing. His mouth goes dry.

"Thank you," Teach says, and nods. "We can take it from here."

"I hope so. Well, I'm not staying either way. Have fun, or don't. Do try to win. It would be rather embarrassing if you didn't."

"Linhardt," Marianne says, softly.

"Right, of course, it's not about winning. I'll see you at camp once you're done." He pauses, and the bells of the dancer's suit chime gently as they settle. "And do come back. I'll be waiting."

Claude's almost relieved when he's gone, safely down the trail towards the encampment. He'll be well protected there. Linhardt has an oddly distracting presence, and nice as it might be to have a dancer at hand, it's one more thing Claude won't have to waste time thinking about. 

"What do you think, Teach?" Claude asks, heart thrumming against his chest. Mira noses at him apologetically, warm breath seeping through the layers of his flight suit. There are shouts from the field already. They can't delay much more. "Not much more we can do from here. Ready to be our trump card?"

"Always," Byleth says. They turn to look at him. They're shining. He can't help but shiver. They have one chance to end it all here and now. All they need to do is catch Edelgard and Dimitri, stop the spread of their forces, and it's over. They'll have won not just the battle, but the war.

He gives the go signal with an arrow, swinging himself up and into the saddle. 

"There's a sniper on the central platform," Ignatz says, glasses gleaming. "With siege equipment - a ballista, I think."

"We need some kind of cover," Claude says, "or we'll never be able to approach."

Teach holds out a hand, steadying them. Claude can't think why - the Kingdom is advancing, and they need to move now if they're going to prevent the forces crashing in a tide of blood. The green light is gone.

It's the movement that catches his eye. Edelgard's troops change formations, a row of dark figures walking to the front. Sacrifices? Fodder for the next wave of Demonic Beasts?

Or mages. Dark robed, black hooded mages, masked just like - just like the ones who'd attacked Garreg Mach, back in Guardian Moon. They stand in a long unbroken line, and then the air fills with shimmering magical glyphs.

The sky catches fire.

The sky catches fire, and it rains down across the field, screaming chunks of burning something, and Claude suddenly realises Teach must have known, must have seen them preparing, even from this distance. Mira hisses and stamps as a chunk lands just a few feet away, smouldering in the mud. It's the same size as his head. It could have hit him.

Claude forces himself to look out over the battlefield. Several chunks have landed in the bogs, sending up plumes of steam. Others have hit people, and he forces himself to look at them too. The damage is sporadic, though, not enough to break the Kingdom's lines, and they're still charging, running towards the central wooden platform, which is starting to collapse because the supports are  _ on fire-  _

"Move!" he shouts, "we have to rescue them-" and Mira launches, throwing herself into the air. There's a steady cloud of smoke rising from the wood, and he's still downwind, so he steers her into it. It's thick and black, irritating his eyes and making him fight the urge to cough. Was some part of the platform doused in tar? Was this planned? Had they missed it?

The wind changes, and he steers Mira into the smoke again, eyes streaming. The archer is still standing, just, although she's looking panicked, and the groan of the buckling wood is unmistakable.

She sees him, finally, breaking through the smoke, and fumbles for an arrow, hand shaking as she pulls it back. That's some discipline. He's so close.

"Drop the weapon!" he shouts, and she's surprised enough that she does, and before she can pick it up Mira's close enough for him to grab her, pull her up onto the saddle. The platform shrieks, sagging and shaking. He doesn't stay to watch it collapse.

The archer coughs, levering herself up to look at him. She looks angry, at first, and then confused, and Claude feels exactly the same way because she's not Bernadetta von Varley, and he has no idea who she is at all.

"You- you're-" and then she starts coughing again, wet retching sounds, and he angles her away so she doesn't throw up on the saddle.

Lysithea is the only one left on the hillock when he lands.

"You're an idiot," she says, helping him lift the archer off. "Everyone's fighting, and you're playing fireman-"

"I saved her life-"

"For now," Lysithea says, but she's already drawing healing signs with the tip of a glowing white finger. "The Professor says you should follow Leonie. She's gone towards the Kingdom."

"Okay," he says, not really listening. There's streaks of soot all over Mira's neck, and he rubs at them apologetically with his sleeve.

"Claude." She pokes his thigh with her strong fingers, and he's struck by how pale she looks, the redness on her lips where she's been chewing them. Lysithea doesn't get anxious. "When this is over, I…"

"You can tell me now," he says, as her lip splits and fresh blood sparkles in the light.

She shakes her head. "When it's over. So you have to come back alive, all right? No more heroics out there."

He doesn't get to answer before she warps him away.

Jerrie starts as Claude and Mira materialise next to him. Leonie's found a position over a coppice, north of the Kingdom advance. "Good to finally see you," she says. "I want to dive in and split the line."

"Sure," says Claude, watching the soldiers move. Mira finds a branch that seems acceptable, and settles down. "If you want to die." 

Leonie scoffs. "Of course." She shuffles in her seat, still watching the Kingdom, and mutters something under her breath.

"I'm sorry," Claude says. "What?"

"The bog's slowing them," Leonie says, "and their generals have broken formation. They're just chasing after Dimitri. If we just stuck a little bit of a wedge in, they'd scatter. I can't see another way to break the advance, and you don't want them to hit the Empire, right?"

He does not. "I see what you mean, but it's still too risky. Can we split them? If I make myself a target, then you can-"

"Come on! Ugh, she said you'd say something like that."

"Like what," Claude says, stung, and they have maybe a minute more before things really get bloody on the field. "Tell me. Who said I'd say something like that."

Leonie won't meet his eyes. "I'm not getting involved," she says, carefully, "but- Hilda was saying you have one rule for yourself and one rule for the rest of us and you hold us back while throwing yourself into danger and it's  _ true _ , all right? So no, I'm not letting you make yourself a target, you idiot. We dive together, and split their flank before they hit the pit traps. Ready to go?"

He's not going to argue his case, because the problem here is Hilda, but it's like they don't even realise how precious they are. How he would feel if anyone ever got hurt because of him. How much time and work it takes to keep them safe and minimise the risks and how they don't realise it isn't easy to do this and keep doing this and if his eyes are watering, there's just smoke in them, still, smoke and the wind.

"Ready."

He lets Jerrie take the lead in the dive.

* * *

They're still downwind, and the Kingdom line is struggling through the bog, wet mud sucking at their boots. As Claude moves closer, he realises they're not nearly as unified as they first appeared, and they're not running towards something. They're running towards someone.

"Stay on him!" someone shouts, above the splashing, the boots in the mud. Claude knows the voice, or knew it, and he isn't surprised to see Felix. He also isn't surprised to see Felix at the head of the line, springing over the rough ground, sword at his side, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Don't lose sight of him!"

Dimitri is bellowing, charging forwards, but the soldiers remained fixed on Felix, running at Felix's punishing pace, and Claude realises how they're going to break the line, and stop the Kingdom advancing.

"Leonie-" he says, but she's shaking her head.

"I see it. I've got him." Jerrie swoops, changing course subtly to have the Kingdom at his flank, and Leonie shines in the light.

"Hey Felix!" she calls, and Claude watches Felix fight the urge to turn his head and look at her. "I fucked your dad last night!"

It's like watching a bull hit a wall. It's like watching the axle crumple on a cart right before him. Time seems to slow down as Felix registers what she's said, reaching for his blade split seconds after and pivoting on one foot to sprint  _ at _ her without ever losing a step. The soldiers falter, unsure. Leonie doesn't move a muscle.

Claude can only watch, horrified, as Felix leaps a tussock, sword in both hands for an overhead strike. His blade gleams, flashing in the light. Leonie leans back.

Felix crashes into a pit trap, momentum carrying him straight through the thin layer of turf and sticks covering it. He seems to fall for a very long time.

Leonie leans forward again, nudging Jerrie to hover beside the lip. She looks down, grinning, and Claude lets out a shaky breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Send him my regards," Leonie says, with a wink, and kicks Jerrie into flight.

The Kingdom forces skid and scramble to a stop, the frontrunners holding their arms out to catch those behind them. Claude doesn't have Leonie's memory for where her pit traps are in this area, or maybe he just didn't spend as much time digging them as she did, but he remembers enough to feel sure that they can't risk turning north to chase after her. There are a couple watching him, hands itching at the spears they carry as if they'd like to hurl them at him and deal with the consequences later. He gives them a leisurely wave. A couple have started to crouch down, reaching into the pit to pull Felix out.

There's a tirade of swearing. "Leave me," Felix snaps, "what did I tell you?  _ Don't lose sight of him _ ."

Claude hasn't. Dimitri hasn't gone far, the bog sticking to his greaves. But the closer he gets to the Empire lines, the more he seems to fight against it, pushing onwards with a strength that's almost frightening. Claude can see the Deer - his friends - moving in the distance, bright colours flashing against the black and red of the Empire lines. He hopes Teach understood enough to hold them back as much as possible. The more distance they can put between Dimitri and his target, the better chance Claude has of stopping him.

The Kingdom's soldiers begin to collect themselves, reforming their lines. Claude kicks Mira upwards, urging her faster, faster, as fast as she can through the wind and the smoke and the noise. Dimitri is almost free of the bog. They left the plain beyond relatively untouched, Claude insisting they would need a corridor for their mounts whichever way the assault came. Unfortunately, it gives Dimitri a clear run at the Empire. He kicks his feet free of the stirrups, and Mira tenses. He pats her neck, and draws his legs up, gripping the saddle with his thighs.

Once she's directly overhead, he lets go.

Dimitri isn't expecting Claude to fall on him. Claude was half-expecting to miss, to mistime the jump, to land in the mud and have to struggle to resume the chase. But he hits Dimitri dead-on, and the would-be King of Holy Faerghus goes tumbling down underneath him. They roll over and over, the cold wetness seeping through the outer layers of Claude's flight suit. The ground squelches as Claude tries to use what little momentum he has to force the spear out of Dimitri's hand. He grabs and grapples, tossing and turning, Dimitri fighting back every time Claude thinks he's gaining the upper hand. 

The mud makes the pole and his gloves slippery, and he can't seem to get purchase on the lance. But he has to - it's on him, and him alone to hold back the Kingdom - so he keeps straining, keeps reaching, keeps trying to find an angle that takes Dimitri by surprise. He has to keep his body loose, his movements open, as Dimitri starts to regain his wits, and moves with volcanic force and approximately the same amount of warning.

Dimitri must not be used to it, though, and Claude realises he can use this. He reaches up, grabbing one of Dimitri's arms, and Dimitri's reactive swing has just enough force behind it to topple him over. Claude grabs his chance, pushing against Dimitri's bulk, into the turn, and pushes against the back of Dimitri's neck. He goes limp. Claude tries to breathe, tries to catch his breath, clothes heavy and wet, holding the last remaining monarch of Faerghus face down in the mud. He hasn't fought like this since childhood.

Dimitri's breathing is wet and ragged. Claude shifts his weight on Dimitri's back to be a little more even, a little less suffocating, and reaches to knock the pole away, the spear lazily rolling a few feet away from them. He has a brief moment of triumph - he's done it, defanged the Kingdom and incapacitated their leader - before Dimitri jerks violently, twisting and writhing under Claude's grip. 

Claude is thrown off, landing on his side in the mud. He just had this suit repaired, he thinks distantly, and now it's going to be ruined again. He'll have to take laundry duty for a week to properly apologise.

Dimitri pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, shoulders shaking. "Who are you," he growls, "and why are you in my way?"

Claude struggles up. The mud is getting into everything, and he landed heavily on his left arm. It probably isn't broken, but it feels sore from the impact, and he shouldn't push and overdo it. He's separated Dimitri from the weapon. That might have to be enough.

Dimitri turns towards him. One single blue eye shines in the middle of the mud, just for a moment, and then his features crease down into a hatred of an intensity Claude has never seen before. "You," he rumbles, "I know you, you're-" and he dives at Claude, hands reaching for his throat before Claude realises what's happening.

Up close, Dimitri is unshaven, lips pitted with cracks and sores, his one remaining eye bloodshot and bulging. There's a streak of dark mud across his face, and his hair is matted and sodden. He looks wild, like a man who has forgotten what it was like to ever live.

There's nothing he could have done, but Claude aches with pity all the same.

Dimitri's gauntlets are cold, slippery with mud, and he can't find a good grip. Claude moves against it as best he can, shuffling back as Dimitri lunges forward. He must be leaving an imprint in the mud. If it all goes wrong, at least that'll make it easier to find his body.

There's a crash and boom from the other side of the field, and Dimitri snaps his head up, single eye wavering as he chases the source of the sound. Claude takes the chance to struggle up, feet slipping in the mud. The evidence of their struggle is written over the field in the churned up ground. Beyond Dimitri, the Kingdom army is starting to catch up, a man with long black hair leading the charge. He can't risk turning around to check on the Empire. He doesn't have a choice but to trust his class. His allies. His  _ friends _ . 

Dimitri lurches upright. His gaze is still fixed on the battle on the other side of the field, and the Kingdom soldiers are getting closer every second. He has to do something.

"Hey," he says, and dashes to stand between Dimitri and whatever's caught his eye. "Don't tell me I'm boring you."

Dimitri's eye flicks back to Claude, clearly confused.

"It's been a while," Claude says, thinking  _ look at me, look at me, don't look over there, look at me _ . "Have you got taller?" Dimitri's eye narrows, but there's a look of confusion somewhere in his face, like he can't believe someone is even talking to him. Claude doesn't know what's been going on for Dimitri over the last five years but he's absolutely certain that it hasn't been good. 

"Not taller? Oh, I know. New hair! Everyone's going to be shocked, you know, when I tell them I've seen a ghost-"

Dimitri's face softens, just a fraction, and Claude's heart leaps into his chest. It must have been the mention of his friends. There's a chance they can make this alliance work.

"-but they won't be expecting your hair. And your spear, that's new, right? Or I should say old, because it looks like-"

"Claude," Dimitri says, eye steady and calm. "I don't want to hurt you, but you're in my way."

Claude opens his mouth to reply, and something whistles over his shoulder. An arrow. The black fletching gleams against the mud. Dimitri is watching it.

"Let's go to camp. Come to my camp, come and see everyone who's waiting, Dimitri, please-"

But Claude can see Dimitri isn't listening, still staring at the arrow. His shoulders are trembling. His lips are moving, but Claude can't hear.

Claude steps forward. "Please," he says, reaching out. "Let's go, please-"

Dimitri slaps at his arm, pushing him away. "Again," he mutters. "Again? Can't you leave me alone?" He starts to claw at his patch, the tips of his gauntlets leaving bright red trails across his face. "I don't want to see you! Leave me alone!"

He doesn't want to stop reaching out - this feels like the most important time to do so - but something inside him warns Claude to take a step back. "We don't have to go now," he says, trying to find the right note of  _ soft  _ and  _ kind  _ and  _ compromise _ . "But later, maybe, when you're ready-"

Dimitri stares at him, lone eye ghastly and pale. Blood mingles with the mud on his face. "I thought I told you," he says, tone even and sure. "To get out of my way."

Mira lunges in over his shoulder. She must catch Dimitri's arm in her mouth, because one second it's swinging and then the next it's not and then there's a horrible crunching sound, and blood starts to ooze out around the plates in Dimitri's gauntlet, and there's screaming, hideous screaming, animalistic and raw. Claude's frozen in horror. The Kingdom arrives.

"Call off the beast! Call off your beast, and we'll talk." It's the man who was leading the charge. There's something familiar in his hair and the lines of his face -  _ Duke Fraldarius _ , his brain helpfully supplies, which is really great as the rest of his conscious brain has decided to leave him - and even though he looks out of breath, he starts directing two big men in heavy armour to retrieve Dimitri's arm. Two soldiers grab for the former prince, taking his shoulders and holding him still.

Claude does what he can. There's no specific command for _hey girl, stop biting him_ but she knows the sharp pull to disengage. They quickly remove the gauntlet, dent marks in the metal, catching the light, shining like stars. They make a perfect crescent moon over the gauntlet. It's almost impressive.

One of the armoured men nods at Claude, and he recognises Lord Gwendal with a heart-jolting moment of unexpected familiarity. Good. That's good, great even, to see him thriving, serving a new liege lord and master. Maybe not to the letter of what Claude had tried to counsel, but definitely in the right spirit, and endlessly better than dead in a burning ditch.

"You there," says the other one, his clean-shaven face stern and heavily lined. "Aren't you going to punish that thing for attacking him?"

Mira has behaved perfectly. Claude considers the man in front of him, the eyes narrowed in suspicion, the weight of his judgemental gaze. "No," he says.

Duke Fraldarius waves him off, starting to draw the glowing signs for healing over the arm. As soon as he's released Dimitri starts thrashing against the men restraining him, jerking his hands up as though as he's going to claw his other eye out.

"None of that," the Duke says, softly. "It's over. We're going to take you home."

Claude doesn't know what to say. "Are you…"

"Something like that," the Duke says, releasing the spell. Dimitri sags, going limp. Claude tries not to watch the skin regrow on his arm. "I apologise if he's caused you any trouble. I would have been here sooner, but there were some issues with my horse."

"Is he… I mean, is he always like this?"

"Like what?" The corners of the Duke's lips twitch up. "Are you asking, as the Duke of Riegan, if the Holy Prince of Faerghus is suffering from fits and visions and needs supervision? My answer will be no. But if you are asking as his former schoolfriend if Dimitri has… some  _ troubles…  _ I would say that I had sent my son to keep an eye on him, but I'm not certain where he's gone. You may have noticed he's still a rather prickly sort."

Claude apparently isn't much use as either a nurse or a punching bag, but a politician is someone he can be in his sleep. He clasps his hands behind his back and straightens his shoulders. "I couldn't possibly say either way."

Duke Fraldarius gives him an appraising look. There's a crack and boom from the other side of the field, and Claude tries to stand still and look unbothered. He needs to look like a man who knows exactly what's going on, and in fact ordered it to happen. The Faerghans nervously readjust their grip on Dimitri. Blessedly, he doesn't stir.

"My experience of the Riegan duchy, limited though it may be, is that men of action like myself would do best to sit back and let you get on with it. Thank you for your time, Duke Riegan. Let us discuss the terms of our cooperation somewhere a little more comfortable than this."

Claude tries not to move, but a twitch of hesitation ripples through him. Can he trust them? Is this over? What has the Duke done to make Dimitri so pliant? There are points he can't add up, and he's loathe to leave when there's so much so completely out of his control. There's another boom and crash. 

"Go," Duke Fraldarius says. Dimitri lolls in his arms, a dead weight. "We will formally declare our terms later, but I give you my word. This is the last solo action by the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus in this war." Claude doesn't need to hear it twice. Mira's ready for him to leap on and launch, and he's three wing beats into the air before he thinks to point.

"The camp's that way!" He shouts into the wind. "But stick to the middle of the field."

Mira's pulled him out of earshot before he can hear the response.

* * *

The other side of the field is chaos. As Claude approaches, a Demonic Beast collapses into black smoke, leaving just a few stray wisps around the cleaving end of Raphael's axe. Imperial soldiers lie in huddles, some focused on their wounded comrades, others clearly taking an opportunity to avoid further hits. His friends are together in a rainbow coloured knot, moving south through their earthworks with Leonie's guidance. He ticks them off his fingers as he counts. There's Raphael, first, and Ignatz at his side, Lorenz behind, Leonie with - if he squints - Lysithea on her saddle, and Teach at the back makes six.

Six?

"Where is she?" he asks as he lands, and it's the impact of landing that forces his breath out in a bark, that's the only reason. "Where's Hilda?"

"She said you sent her ahead," Ignatz says, frowning. "Lysithea helped you and Leonie go left, and you sent Hilda ahead to scout, and she said you'd told her to take Marianne with her." He seems to work it out as he's saying it, and his face falls. "None of that was true, was it?"

"It was a creative interpretation of the truth," Claude says, and he feels weary. He doesn't get why she's doing this and especially not why now, when he's holding the threads of their success so tightly it's making him ache. They'd planned as best he could and things had still turned sour, with the Kingdom nearly breaking through their ranks. He doesn't know what would have happened if Duke Fraldarius hadn't been so amenable to an alliance. But Hilda seems to think she's above all that. She accuses him of hypocrisy in one breath, and storms off on her own with the next. If anything has happened to her, or Marianne…

Teach puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's ok," they say. "Nothing bad has happened yet."

He tries to find comfort in it. "Yet."

"Yet," Teach agrees. "So we should catch up with them. They went south."

"I'll go ahead," Claude says, like he should have done in the first place. He swings back onto Mira, who grunts at the weight. "South, you said?"

The Empire's lines have been pretty comprehensively broken. The black-robed mages are slumped in heaps, and he catches Lysithea kicking one out of the corner of his eye. The Demonic Beasts are vanquished, and the rank and file soldiers are groaning quietly on the ground. The Empire has been  _ smashed _ , meeting the full force of the Alliance's best and brightest head on and regretting it. Why would Hilda need to go even further south?

There's a dais, that's all. A dais, surrounded by columns of once-carved stone, now crumbling. Strategically, if Claude had been attacking from the south, he would have made it his launching point. But there's nothing there now.

Nothing there, but behind it? A flash of black, a flash of red, a flash of silver. And pink. And red, and red, and red.

He doesn't even hear Teach ask what he's seen.

* * *

Mira's getting tired. She's outdone herself today, but wyverns are only built for so many life-or-death sprints between each meal. He feels her strain and shudder under his legs, but she plunges onwards, and he's grateful, because if she couldn't, he would have to run, and he's not going to delude himself that he would get there in time.

The dais is ancient and weather-beaten, chipped and worn away to the point of collapse. It must have been part of something greater once, something ancient and powerful. Now, it's rotting from the inside, the wooden beams long gone, and the stones are only still in place because choking ivy has grown around them. They'd talked about stationing someone there, maybe a relief force, but had ultimately decided it was too dangerous. Too weak. Come winter, the men who work these lands will probably tear it down and grow something new there instead. Even the most ancient things can't exist forever.

He lands Mira as close as he dares, and creeps towards the building. There's a line of bushes, thankfully, and he stays in the cover. There's no one around. The soldier line collapsed much further forwards, but there's been no call to retreat. They must believe their Emperor can hold her own.

Edelgard steps onto the dias. She has her back to Claude, retreating from commotion even further south. Her hair shines like starlight and her skirts shine like blood and Claude realises that for all he's been fighting her in every way he could for the last five years, they've never once been face to face. She's holding an axe like it weighs nothing, like it's an afterthought, like she just needed some way of resting it in her grip. It's not a defensive stance. He's nearly close enough to touch.

"Enough-" she shouts, and Marianne bobs into view for a second before a cloud of dark magic explodes in her face. Cethie snorts, unbothered. "Hubert, that's enough!"

There's another bolt of dark magic, but Marianne seems to dodge that, Cethie's wings trailing against the edge of the dais. Edelgard seems hesitant to re-engage. That makes Claude hesitant, and he stops just short. If he's hasty, he'll get Marianne and Hilda killed. He doesn't know what's going on behind the dias, who's engaged in the fight. Marianne, certainly. Hubert, probably. But where's Hilda?

Cethie does another pass, the sunlight brilliant against the feathered edges of her wings.

"Hubert," Edelgard says, shifting the grip on her axe. "If you want us to make that meeting with your relief force, let me call the retreat. This is a distraction!"

Another sizzle, another bolt of dark magic flying wide. He tries to trace its trajectory, but the pillars of the dias make it difficult. If he has to guess, it's off to Edelgard's right, somewhere, but that's not the line Marianne is engaging with, which means-

Hubert is on the move. Claude needs to hunker down and listen, wait for him to respond to Edelgard's call and pin it further from there but there's too much noise, his pulse thumping in his ears and drowning out everything around him. Hubert's moving from the right. Edelgard's on the dais. Mira's behind him, and dismounting might have been the worst choice he could make. He needs to get back to her. He stays low, moving as quickly as he can, and bites back a breath when a twig snaps under his feet.

"Hello, Claude," says Hubert, pleasantly. "As much as I prefer you like that, you should get up."

* * *

The way Hubert's medals scrape and dig into Claude's left arm is only a momentary reprise from the pain of having it twisted up and behind him. His right is in a similar state, pulled tight towards Hubert and crushing his own neck. Hubert's surprisingly strong.

"You're surprisingly strong," he says, with as much confidence as he can muster. It's not very much. Hubert presses a knee against the back of his leg, kicking at his ankle and Claude gasps with pain as he loses his footing, supported only by the dual wrenching at his shoulders.

"You're unsurprisingly annoying," Hubert replies, and there's a lilt to the end of it, like he thinks that's a very funny joke. "Well. No matter. How utterly fortunate that such a rat would climb into my trap."

"Some trap. You didn't even have any - _ ah-  _ cheese-"

"Cheese catches mice," Hubert says with distaste, like this is boring him. "As I said, you're nothing but a rat, and one her Majesty has a particular dislike for."

"So you're the royal rat catcher-" and he can't help but grin, even as his own arm chokes him. "What a perfect job for her loyal dog. Do you sleep at the foot of her b _ hgk-" _

"I would advise you to stop talking," Hubert says, very camly, like he isn't strangling a man with his own arms, "but you've never taken good advice. So I'll have to stop you myself. Walk with me, please, and don't talk. You'll find it hard enough to breathe in a moment."

Claude's ahead of him, at least, and he sees the dais before Hubert does, even as the spots in his vision play against the riot of colour. Edelgard is still there. But she isn't alone.

The Emperor of Adrestia is crouching, head bowed as if in prayer, and you could mistake the scene for any woodcut in a particularly lavish scripture. The only thing that's different is the woman with the axe.

"Hi Hubert," Hilda says. Marianne's somewhere nearby, a flash of blue in the corner of his vision. Or that's the lack of air. "I've got something that you want."

There's nothing, silence, and then a little flick of Hubert's free arm and a  _ swish _ . There's a blade at Claude's throat, a blade that must have been hidden in Hubert's sleeve, and the tip digs into his skin every time he breathes.

"Oh, Hubert. Hubert, Hubert, Hubert. That's not a very sensible move! Don't do something you might regret."

Claude can feel Hubert's teeth grinding behind his ear. He's getting dizzy, vision swimming. "I've never regretted killing vermin," Hubert spits. "If her Majesty commands it, I will do it with relish."

"Gosh," Hilda says, and Claude's lost sight of Marianne completely. "She'll be so happy to hear that! Shame my arms are getting tired…" She rolls her shoulders theatrically, and lifts her axe as if to swing.

Hubert tenses.

"You want to do your job. I get that. But what will you do?" Hilda asks, as innocently as she can. "Is he worth it? Will you trade his life for your emperor's?"

Hubert trembles and the blade nicks Claude's throat. He doesn't even dare to swallow. 

"Please," he whispers, and he feels the twitch as Hubert turns to look at him, just for a second, before fixing back on Edelgard and the axe at her head.

"Maybe," Hilda says, carefully, "we can trade their lives now. That's my girlfriend behind you, that's her sword you can feel in your back. Let him go. And I'll get a better grip on my axe."

The blade gets sheathed, somewhere, and there's the tiniest lifting of pressure. Claude gasps gratefully, filling his lungs while he can. Slowly, unnecessarily slowly, Hubert releases him. The pain in his shoulders makes his eyes water. Only Marianne sees.

"Ok?" she whispers, and he's impressed by her form, legs bent in a half-lunge, ready to drive the point of the blade into Hubert's back. He manages to nod in return, and she smiles, taking a half step forwards.

"No magic," Hilda calls. "No magic, no knives, no secret magic knives! Once you're on the other side of the dais, I'm going to release her. And you can take her and run. You should run. Everyone's catching up now, and they're going to be  _ pissed _ ."

Hubert keeps walking calmly.

"You should call a retreat," she tells Edelgard, resting a foot on her back. "Otherwise we'll take your men. Professor thinks everyone deserves a second chance in these things. Isn't that nice? Isn't that_ so_ nice of the Professor? Tell me how nice it is."

"It's very nice," Edelgard mutters, gaze fixed on the ground.

"Much nicer than me," says Hilda, cheerfully.

Marianne is past the dais, keeping Hubert walking slowly forwards, but she turns a fraction at that. "Hilda-"

"You can get up now," Hilda says, drowning out the rest of Marianne's thought. "Slowly."

Edelgard rises stiffly, like she needs something to lean on. Hubert pauses.

"Keep walking," Marianne says, softly. "All the way to the boundary, please." Beyond the drystone wall is a dirt track, and Claude has to assume it will lead to a road that leads back to Enbarr. If there any Imperial troops hiding around it, they're very camouflaged, or very small. The land looks bleak and empty.

"When you get to the boundary," Hilda calls, "I'm going to count to three. If you're still in sight when I'm done, I'm going to get on my wyvern, and I'm going to chase you, and I'm not going to stop until she's chewing on your bones. Understood?"

Edelgard nods. Tessa pokes her head around a pillar, Edelgard's axe splintering in her mouth.

"On three," Hilda says, turning Edelgard to face the distant wall. "One, two, thre-"

Hubert twists, a cloud of purple leaving his fingers. Hilda hasn't released Edelgard, frozen in shock, but the bolt sails past her. There's a moment of agony on Hubert's face - when it mattered most,  _ he missed _ \- but it's just a moment. Then the dais starts falling down.

Claude tries to shout, but the words rasp and die in his throat. Marianne is suddenly in motion, running towards it, but she can't get there in time. The damage has been done. The stone creaks and groans and after a long, horrible second, finally collapses.

There's noise. There's dust, clouds of dust, and the ivy surrounding the pillars was evidently drier and deader than he'd first thought because it collapses too.

Then there's silence.

Marianne looks at him, and her face is contorted with real pain. He can't imagine he looks much better.

Hilda coughs.

They scramble over the rubble, Claude pulling Marianne over the loose stone, heedless of the residual pain in his shoulders. She's so light on her feet she's almost flying, desperately pulling him along in turn, and they almost don't see Hilda, rocks all around her, bent double and coughing and covered in a coating of thick grey dust.

Marianne doesn't even break stride, leaping over a fallen pillar to get to her. "Hilda-," she gasps, reaching out, "Hilda, Hilda, oh Hilda-"

Hilda presses her face into Marianne's hands, and her body follows, uncoiling upwards into an embrace. Marianne's touching everywhere, wiping grime and dust off Hilda's cheeks, her pauldrons, her ears. Claude almost feels like he should look away.

Hilda catches sight of him as she looks up. "Claude," she croaks, "I'm so sorry. They got away."

* * *

Teach arrives shortly after, Raphael and Ignatz in tow on their heavy horses. They help lift Hilda up and prop her on the front of the saddle on Ignatz's grey mare. She leans back into him, head lolling against his shoulder. Teach heals recklessly, burning away her bruises in a brilliant white light. Claude can't say he disagrees with it.

He takes her hand and squeezes once, twice. It twitches weakly in his, and blessedly, Hilda smiles. "Why'd you do it?" he whispers, which is as loud as he can be. He is trying not to be overheard. Ignatz's ears are flaming red. "Why did you risk everything and go on ahead?"

"I knew you'd come for me," Hilda says, and then doesn't say anything more, seized by another coughing fit as Ignatz starts trying to wheel his horse around and Marianne hands him Mira's reins. He'll have to walk her back. Mira's eyes look heavy, and her head droops. "I just knew you would. Let's go back to camp."

Lorenz and Leonie have finished rounding up whatever remains of the Imperial forces, Lysithea scowling as she deals with the most life-threatening wounds. There's a round of hugs, arms slung over shoulders, pats on the back for Lysithea who didn't want to be interrupted in her work, and then they start the determined limp back to their camp.

It doesn't feel like it, but they've won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> **EDIT: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to Harry, Birds, Selki and Mae; ever patient, ever gracious, ever charming and kind; this fic literally would not exist without you. And especially thank you Harry for the last minute SPG. I owe you my life.**
> 
> I'm not sure what happened to December - I work for the NHS, which probably explains it - but here we are! Finally! Everyone's favourite: Gronder Field. I hope you enjoyed it. Some parts were like pulling teeth, and then others were like "let's think of some more homoerotic words for this mud wrestling scene." Thanks for your patience, one and all.
> 
> We're in Gronder for one chapter more, and I'm about.... 35% done with it? I hope? So it might not be another two months before I update again but, you know, don't hold me to that. I'll do my best.
> 
> Big news! Not only am I still on tumblr as [wizling](https://wizling.tumblr.com/) and twitter as [vvizling](https://twitter.com/vvizling), but I've got a fun and sexy new FE16 shitposting/reblogging twitter at [pegasusknightz](https://twitter.com/pegasusknightz) where I say things like "this is my FE16 shitposting twitter" and then talk exclusively about Soren for a week. Hours of fun! (Fun not guaranteed)
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading, thanks for your patience if you've been sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Next chapter: The Beast


	11. The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncomfortable truths, uncomfortable not-truths, Hearing First Hand About The Consequences Of Your Actions, a goodbye to Gronder and a great big group hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild content warning for Dimitri having a violent disassociative episode and unintentionally hurting someone. If you do want to skip it, it's from "no finer sacrifice than to die for Faerghus-" to "Teach is in the medical tent".

### 10\. The Beast

**Great Tree Moon, 1186**

Claude's not sure if he feels strange because of the battle or that they're going back to camp for the very last time. He's exhausted, but he's far from the only one, and for Lysithea (dragging her feet with every step) and Hilda (jolting awake every time the horse stumbles) and Raphael (he can hear his stomach rumbling from here) he pushes forward, and only turns away when he feels the tickle of a coughing fit in his throat. His left arm is tucked into his sash, and he tries not to hiss whenever it jolts as he moves. It's fine. It looks casual enough.

They made it. They won, whatever that means, and as much as anyone can win with an ally incapacitated and the enemy fled. The Deer are alive, and intact, mostly, which means he's kept his direct responsibilities safe as best he can. Teach and Leonie had offered to stay behind and organise the abandoned Imperial soldiers, brushing off Claude's offers to assist. Teach had been surrounded by white magic, knitting wounds back together and soothing bumps. Leonie shoved him, gently, and said _ come on, you've done enough. _ So that had been that.

The camp's quiet as they approach, and only Linhardt is waiting near their makeshift perimeter. "I thought you'd be napping," Claude says, even as it scratches. Whether it was the choking or the masonry dust, he probably shouldn't be talking right now.

Linhardt rolls his eyes. "You were rather noisy. Besides, I wanted to see if my spell worked as intended."

"Exactly as planned," he manages, with a little more volume, although the words are hoarse and then he starts coughing _ again. _ He doesn't have the breath to mention that it almost cost him his life, because they'd never anticipated that Dimitri would need a horseback nursemaid to stop him clawing out his own eye or strangling Claude in the mud. He needs Linhardt to have this victory, to feel the flush of effort and achievement, because Claude needs this small project to be an unparalleled success in order to convince Linhardt the big ones are worth doing at all.

But Linhardt doesn't look pleased. In fact, his face is creasing, furrows appearing between his eyebrows. He reaches towards Claude, and Claude doesn't lean away, letting Linhardt gingerly loosen his collar. He can't help but hiss every time the backs of Linhardt's long fingers brush against his throat.

Linhardt sizes up whatever is now revealed and then glances away, probably at Hilda, and the furrows deepen. "What happened out there?"

"I'll tell you. Help me take them to the medical tent," Marianne says. She's on Ignatz's horse, reins in one hand and Hilda in the other. He's grateful that she's offered, that he doesn't have to find more words that feel like needles in his throat, that she's still looking after them after how everything ended on the field.

Linhardt doesn't say anything, just nods, and Claude's grateful for that too.

* * *

Annette and Mercedes have made the medical tent almost homey. The cots are all neatly made, the medical tools gleam and there's even fresh flowers in vases. It's almost unoccupied, although Claude recognises the inhabitant of the sole used bed.

The Imperial archer has an arm in a sling. She reeks of the burn ointment that makes Claude gag and cough on a good day, and he holds his breath until he feels the wind change, pulling the noxious smell away. She has such a thoroughly unhappy look on her face that he wonders if she would rather have died out there. Here, in the bright light, she is unmistakably not at all Bernadetta von Varley; timid, a gifted archer, and - unless his sources have been lying to him - one of the people closest to Edelgard von Hresvelg. Claude pushes the question of where Bernadetta is back down to the bottom of his mind. Linhardt announces himself by knocking on a tent pole, which makes Annette jump, and Claude cough, again.

"I've got a couple more for you," he says, nodding towards Hilda, still supported by Marianne. "Don't ask me what happened. Bye."

Annette is the faster of the two, and before Claude really knows what's going on she's tilting his head by the chin, displaying every inch of his neck to the light.

"I'm fine. It looks worse than it is." Annette's eyes widen. Sounds worse than it looks, clearly. "You need to see to Hilda first-" but she's not listening, grabbing his shoulders to turn him. He does his best to hide the wince.

"What do you think, Mercie?"

Mercedes has Hilda's arm draped over her shoulders. "Tell me your opinion first, Dr Dominic."

"Trauma," Annette says, instantly, and puts a hand over Claude's mouth before he can say _ no I'm fine, honestly _. 

"Great job, Annie, I completely agree!"

"Yes!" Annette does a little fist pump, which would be cute if Claude knew what was going on. "Ok, Mercie, ready to do your thing?"

"Watch her for dizziness and any signs of a head wound. And if there's any vomiting call me back, ok?"

"I've got it!" Annette calls, and Claude can't see what's happening to Hilda any more because Mercedes is standing in front of him, and her fingers on his jaw are much gentler than Annette's had been.

"Hmm," Mercedes half-says, half-hums, but Claude has never seen her look so focused before. "I think the first thing I should do is listen to your chest. How's the pain, out of ten?" She's already turned to the table in the centre, collecting tools.

"Is Hilda ok?"

"She's fine. I'll take your pain as minimal, then, that's good." She frowns as she takes the sight of him in, seeming to linger on his jacket.

He wiggles out of it as best he can. It's strangely exposing, sitting there in just his undershirt and underwear. If Mercedes feels anything unusual, she doesn't mention it. Mercedes is quick and methodical, and he only has a moment to glance at Hilda - she's coughing furiously but not vomiting, thankfully - before she's done, standing up and, after a moment, pulling the jacket back on over his shoulders. He still feels exposed, but that helps.

He manages to clear his throat. "I thought healing was done with faith?"

"Hmm?" Mercedes half-hums, half-asks. "Of course it is. Why are you asking?"

"Because-" and then he falters, because _ this doesn't seem like the Fódlish way of doing things _ reveals just a little too much. "I just thought you had to pray, or something."

Truthfully, he's used to the way the true savants do it. Teach, Linhardt and Lysithea seem to throw spells out without a second thought, the magic coming to them as naturally as breathing, and they heal like it's any other kind of magical energy exchange. To be lingered over, to be examined like this, in _ Fódlan _ of all places just feels... wrong. Maybe he just hadn't given them enough credit.

Mercedes gives him a strange look, and if he didn't know better he'd guess she was appraising him. "The Goddess works through us all in our own ways. The Church encourages learning doctrine about how the body works to better guide Her will." She's drawing shapes and lines in the air with a glowing fingertip, and although Claude recognises some of the spell, it's too complicated for him to follow. Mercedes must catch him watching, because she almost smiles.

Just before the spell is complete, she stops. The white lines flicker and waver in the air. Mercedes closes her eyes, lips moving as she mumbles something. He tries to read her lips, but it's never been his greatest strength, and the only thing he definitely gets is the final word. _ Amen. _

Mercedes might be laughing at him, but she connects the last line of the spell. The itch of magical healing spreads throughout Claude's chest, making him cough more ferociously than he has before. He feels dizzy.

"Any better?" Mercedes asks, and he's not sure if he should nod. His arm feels a little better. His throat definitely feels worse. She reaches out with glowing fingertips and it's like taking a cool drink, melting away the rawness and the burn.

"Thank you." Even to his own ears, his voice sounds normal, and he doesn't cough. He reaches up to touch his neck, even if he can't see it, but nothing is painful. Nothing's even sore. "Thank you, I…"

"Don't worry about it," she says, and pats him on the head. "Give it five minutes to make sure, then you can be on your way."

On the other side of the tent, Hilda is already being discharged. She barely gives Claude a glance before Marianne pulls her away and they disappear beyond the tent walls. It's quiet. Of course there wouldn't be any injured soldiers trickling in yet. He's not even sure how many will need to come after Teach is finished, or want to after Leonie gives her speech about the state of soldier's wages and what kind of things are really worth dying for.

There's a rustle of sheets next to him. The archer. Looking at her now, he's not sure how he ever mistook that archer for Bernadetta. She's small, yes, and Bernadetta never had much of a presence that he can remember, but where Bernadetta wilted this girl stands strong. She meets his gaze, face hardening with distrust. Her right hand twitches even though it's immobilised by the sling. She's not grateful, he thinks, not for the sling, not for being taken out of the battle, not for any of their interventions. She doesn't see it as saving her life. She doesn't believe Edelgard would ever have left her to die.

"Why did you kidnap me?" She asks, and he's as taken aback by her directness as he is by what she said. "Why won't you let me go?"

"Kidnap you, I didn't kidnap you. I was saving your life. That platform was going to collapse-"

"I want to go back to Her Majesty. Why won't you let me go? Why are you keeping me here? Why do you keep taking people from their families?"

"I'm not- We don't _ take _ people, what are you-"

"We know you take people! You took Ladislava, and you took Caspar, and anyone who tries to stand against you gets stolen away to rot in those horrible dungeons! Everyone was right. You're horrible people. You're just the same as the Church."

He can hear Mercedes and Annette moving behind him, drawn by the commotion. He holds out his hands, palms up. "I didn't mean to take you, but I understand why you feel that way. I'm sorry. You can leave at any time, and no one will stop you. I promise."

She glares daggers at him, and her free hand clutches at the sheets.

"I mean it. You can go. I'll… look, I'll close my eyes and count to a hundred, how about that? I won't know what's happened to you. And if you head back to the field, I'm sure you can find some Imperial soldiers who can help take you home."

Just consider it, he thinks. Just weigh it up against the other options here. She twitches, and points to Annette. "She counts, not you. The big girl covers your eyes. You won't keep them closed."

Mercedes' hands cover his vision before he's even finished nodding. Annette counts carefully and methodically, and he tries to focus on the rhythm of her voice instead of the whisper of the sheets, and the careful footfall. Mercedes' hands are warm, and he finds his eyes really-for-real closing, head nodding forwards into her support.

"Ninetyeightninetynineonehundred! Is he asleep, Mercie?"

"Hmm, I don't think so. But you can open your eyes now. She's gone."

The world comes back into focus slowly. Annette's sitting on the recently vacated bed, and Mercedes is kneeling in front of him, carefully refastening his coat.

"Lorenz came looking for you," she says, fingers flying over the various hidden clasps. "But I sent him away. You weren't decent."

What could Lorenz have wanted? "Thanks," he says. "For all of that. You really helped me out."

Mercedes makes a non-committal noise in the back of her throat. "I'm just happy that little girl is safe," Annette says, swinging her legs. "I hope her family weren't too caught up in the fighting."

"They're probably fine," Claude says, "I think. Sorry, I've got to get going." Mercedes waves him off. It's still bright outside, thankfully, and he needs to get an arrangement in place with the Kingdom today, wherever they are. Lorenz should know. He's rounding the corner of the tent, scanning the horizon when he catches the hum of voices, and can't help but crouch down and lean in. It's fuzzy, but he can make out enough of the words.

"-did a great job today, Annie-"

"Oh no, Mercie, it was all you! This was such a good idea. People from the Kingdom will start arriving at any minute, and then we…"

There's a hiss of whispering.

"..._ someone _ will have seen him. Don't worry, Annie, and don't give up. I'm sure we'll find your father soon."

A sigh. "I know. I need to be patient. But I feel bad about keeping it secret… I feel like I'm lying to everyone… Maybe I should just tell them? And let them know?"

"And scare him off?" A pause. "I still think it's better if no one suspects a thing. And you're getting so much better at hiding it, Annie, you were amazing earlier. I'm sure Claude will forgive you. But it's always better to seek forgiveness than beg permission."

"RIght as always, Mercie. Speaking of forgiveness, did I tell you about the time he caught me-" Claude pulls away, ears burning.

It's a mystery solved, at least, and he's glad it's nothing more sinister than some completely bungled subterfuge. If he'd known, he could have helped them, but it's fine. He can play by their rules. All he needs is a list of likely candidates for the man they're trying to find, and then to point them in this direction, and...

Lorenz is crossing the tent rows, heading away from him. He scrambles to his feet, slipping in the mud, and has to steady himself with his hands.

* * *

He tries not to sound or look out of breath when he finally catches Lorenz. "Hey," he says, and hopes it comes across as cool. "Did you need me?"

Lorenz's face seems to light up. "Ah," he says, "you look better. Much better. I take Mercedes worked her magic on you?"

"In a strictly literal sense, yes. What's up?"

"Walk with me," Lorenz says, instead of an answer, and actually offers Claude his arm. Claude doesn't take it. But he does make sure they match step, even if it means a little extra stretch in his hips to match Lorenz's stride.

"We're hoping to have all the tents taken down and start the journey back to Garreg Mach before mid-afternoon. I thought it would be best to start with the bulk, pack the wagons with those and then set everyone to work on their own personal tents. We should be at Myrddin by- you're not listening, are you?"

"I'm listening," Claude says, "but I don't need to know the details. I trust you, Lorenz, and I know you'll work it out."

Lorenz stops dead.

"What? What did I say?"

"Oh, no, it's just- I could have sworn you just voluntarily delegated something trivial. Did you hit your head and not tell anyone? Are you sure you're the real Claude?"

"Ha ha. Don't start, please, I already had an earful from Leonie."

Lorenz nods, his hair swishing half a heartbeat behind. "Should I expect her to redraw my withdrawal plan once she reappears?"

"Absolutely not," Claude says, and hooks his arm through the crook of Lorenz's elbow to emphasise it. "Haven't I said you have my full confidence in this matter?"

"My word, Duke Riegan. How unprecedented." He's had to shorten his step to match Claude, and that's perversely satisfying. "I'd best get on with it."

"Good luck," Claude says, and means it. "And don't come to me with any more logistical problems, I'm going to have enough of a headache trying to sort things out with the Kingdom. Where are they?"

Lorenz reaches over to clasp both of his hands around Claude's arm, and if Claude didn't know better he might consider it a gesture of genuine affection. "Duke Fraldarius and the other Kingdom representatives are waiting for you on the outskirts of camp," Lorenz says, softly. "I thought it best not to let them have the run of the place before you'd made it clear what was expected of them. But perhaps you should…" and Claude follows his gaze down to the mud drying on his gloves, almost indistinguishable from his newly brown flight suit.

"Perhaps I should," he agrees, and Lorenz gives him a look of pure gratitude and relief. Let them wait. It's not too far to his tent.

The camp is being dismantled, the neat rows of canvas morphing into puddles of fabric and sticks. A few tents have been taken down completely, revealing squares of yellowed grass. It's a strange sight, and Claude feels like it shouldn't be looked at, that their presence on Gronder is no longer required or welcome. The field is already starting to reclaim what it owns. There's a few signs of life, here and there, the heavier detritus still lingering, and Claude stops gratefully at a rain bucket to splash his face.

His reflection in the ripples looks tired.

He shouldn't feel tired, he decides, shedding layers of clothes and mud in his tent. They've won, with absolutely minimal loss of life, which was always their aim. In addition, he's one exhaustingly argued peace treaty away from uniting Faerghus and the Alliance, which is unquestionably a good thing, and will give the Empire some serious food for thought. He hasn't just succeeded, he's excelled. No matter who's perspective he considers, the Golden Deer and the Alliance had the best possible outcome on the field.

But as he struggles into the least worst shirt he brought, he can't stop thinking about Dimitri, clawing at his own face in the mud. Edelgard disappearing as the dais collapsed around her. He still needs to speak to Hilda. And…

There's something else he has to do.

Ferdinand is talking to the horses as Claude approaches. "And you, my beauty, I shall find you a carrot for your excellent work. Now lift your foot, please, _ thank you _, and my word, what a fine collection of stones- Claude! I didn't see you approach!"

He moves as if to stand up, colliding with the horse's undercarriage, and it shuffles and stomps, tail swishing. "Sorry," Claude says, feeling guilty, not just that he's interrupting but that he has to say this at all. It's not a job for someone else to do. He's got to take responsibility. "I didn't mean to interrupt, I just… I thought you should know we saw Hubert on the field today."

Ferdinand hasn't stopped smiling, hands braced on his bent knees, but that takes some light out of his eyes. Claude feels his throat tighten. "Did you!" says Ferdinand, with an airy, false brightness. "And how was he, was he well?"

"I didn't ask," and the discomfort starts to press on him like a stone. "But he looked well, and he was with Edelgard-"

"Ah," Ferdinand says, finally resuming whatever job involved picking up the horse's legs and scratching away. His hair falls in front of his face. "Well. That is hardly news. But I am glad to hear he is doing as well as he can be. I suppose he evaded your capture?"

"This time."

"Indeed. He is cunning, is he not? Yet far too dangerous to continue on his own path. May I make a request, Claude? When the time comes… May I see him, one last time?"

It's like a physical blow. It takes the wind out of him. "If I'd known he was going to be there you could have been with us today, I-"

"In truth," Ferdinand says, bent double over his task. The scratching noises stop. "I am not sure what I would have had to say. I have no doubt he is utterly displeased with me, given that I have chosen to pursue our shared goals down a path which is at such odds with his own. And our relationship, whatever we had, has come under such scrutiny that I find I..."

"I'm sorry about that," Claude says. "I really am. I didn't ask for you to be interrogated, and I was horrified when I found out-"

Ferdinand holds up a hand. The horse fidgets, still balancing on three legs. "You do not need to apologise. I have had a chance to reflect on many things, and for that I am truly grateful. My fellow former Adrestians and I have had some stimulating discussions about the course of the war and our roles in it, and I find myself… Regretting things, perhaps. Wishing I had done things differently. But we cannot change the past! We must move ever forwards."

He finally releases the leg, and stands up, patting the horse on the rump along the way. "I cannot allow myself to wallow in despair. If I am ashamed of my past actions, I must take it upon myself to put them right. Therefore all I can ask is that I may see him one last time. Consider it my final indulgence."

"Of course," Claude says, but he feels like there's something he's missing, some crucial context for Ferdinand's words. "Whatever you need."

Ferdinand nods, moving to pick up the horse's front leg, and Claude leaves him to it, faintly convinced he may have only made things worse. But Ferdinand had a right to know, didn't he? Wouldn't Claude have wanted to know, if he was in Ferdinand's place?

Wouldn't Claude have wanted to save him?

It's a stupid, fleeting thought, but he finds himself stuck to it. Did Ferdinand expect Claude to save Hubert? Was Ferdinand waiting for the news that Hubert was in custody, stripped of weapons and magic, perhaps even repentant? Well. Maybe that's too far. But Claude had given him a moment of hope and then crushed it, oblivious, and Ferdinand, poor Ferdinand, who'd thrown himself into the work required to maintain Garreg Mach like no other, who'd been under such painful scrutiny, who'd had to suffer the indignity of Judith and Shamir analysing his love letters… The cruelty of it all hits Claude like lightning; muted, frozen, breathless. 

The worst part is that Ferdinand wouldn't even hate him for it. Ferdinand, who found something worth loving in Hubert von Vestra wouldn't ever hate Claude for something as inconsequential as cruel inadequacy.

There's nothing Claude can do now. There might be nothing he can do at all until they face Hubert in battle. If he can get in there, when it happens, if he can get everyone to sit down and talk… It might hinge on Ferdinand and his willingness to demonstrate that Edelgard's plan of reformation and Claude's vision for Fódlan aren't as different as they might seem - save for the slight problem of the brutal conquest and all the murder - but apart from that it seems almost doable. What he has, he realises, is a _ plan _, or at least something enough like one to refine and build upon, and that flicker of determination gives him enough energy to pull the last wrinkles out of his least-worst shirt and go to face Faerghus.

* * *

Officially, thanks to Lorenz's intervention, he hasn't recognised the Faerghan delegation, so no one is allowed in or out of the camp. Technically they aren't there. Once he does, of course, it'll be like nothing happened, and the two groups can mingle freely. But it gives them breathing space, just for a moment, a chance for those who were down on the field to recover and those who weren't to catch up. There's time for the Faerghans in his group to think about how they want the reunion to go. They must have plenty to say to each other. Has Ashe realised that Sir Gwendal is here? He should say something.

Sylvain and Ingrid are loitering by the outskirts. They're not pushing any boundaries or breaking any diplomatic understanding, but the intent is clear. Claude swallows. They'd always been loyal to the Kingdom. Sylvain had been fighting in the resistance for five years. As though he knows Claude is thinking about him, he waves lazily, and Ingrid, after a moment, follows suit. Neither of them come over to meet him.

"Everything ok?" he asks, and they glance at each other, something unreadable passing between them.

"Everything's fine," Sylvain says, although he doesn't look particularly happy about it. "Everything ok at your end?"

"Sure," he says. "Just doing my bit, I guess. Getting the formalities out of the way so we can get into the good stuff." Ingrid relaxes a little, but formalities were important to her. She's not exactly quiet about wanting to be an old-fashioned storybook knight.

"Better get to it!" Sylvain says, cheerily, and slaps Claude on the back hard enough to make him wince. Sylvain has definitely seemed brighter, more focussed since Ingrid came back. Maybe she's pulling him out of taverns now and it's just not Claude's place to get involved. Or maybe it's common in Faerghus. Whatever the reason, Sylvain _ is _ doing better, his memory sharper and his grasp on the day of the week and month back to a normal, functional level. Actually...

"Sylvain," Claude says. "You don't happen to know the name of a knight who's with the Kingdom, do you? Big guy, stern face, greyish-red hair-"

"Oh, that's Gilbert. Used to be Baron Gustav Dominic, joined the Knights of Seiros under the name Gilbert…. Gilbert Ponislav? Pronislav? Doesn't matter. Left the Knights and joined Rodrigue- I mean, Duke Fraldarius for the war. Bit of a jerk, honestly. He has a brother - the current Baron Dominic, nice guy - and a very lovely wife- _ ouch- _ and a lovely daughter _ too _-'' Sylvain sidesteps Ingrid's second attempt to elbow him, and she settles for kicking him in the ankle instead.

"Dominic," Claude says, "like Annette?"

"Yes," Ingrid says, still frowning. "Why?"

"Huh," Claude says, although the pieces have already fallen into place. "You're good with names and faces, aren't you?"

Sylvain's face softens, just for a second. "Oh, I kind of have to be. No good me setting out to woo the most charming angel I've ever seen if I don't remember how mad her sister was when I- _ Ingrid!" _

She pulls the punch, but only just. "If I can't stop you, at least-! Don't brag about it. It's disrespectful."

"Ingrid, I'm not saying I'm a model of chivalry or anything, but I_ respect women _-"

"-and you can't even acknowledge your good points! You have an amazing memory, when you try, but it all has to be part of your stupid game! Do you even realise how frustrating it is?" She sighs. No one sighs like Ingrid. Claude tries not to cringe, because this time, at least, he hasn't done anything wrong. "Sorry, Sylvain, I'm-"

"No, you're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't joke about it, it's not… I'm sorry. Annette is Gilbert's daughter, Claude, though he won't talk to her. And he is a jerk."

"He _ was _rude to my wyvern," Claude offers, which sets Ingrid's mouth in a firm line.

"Unbelievable," Sylvain shakes his head, but there's a slight over-exaggeration to it that makes Claude think he's relaxing, that whatever tension boiled over between him and Ingrid has passed, that they're back to whatever they consider friendship. Or mutual toleration. "You just can't get good knights anymore. Hey, if there's anyone else you want me to name from a vague description, just let me know. I'm at your service, Mr Leaderboss."

He waves his acknowledgement. They don't make any move to follow him, and Claude passes fairly easily into the Faerghan lines.

They aren't standing in formation, but the surrendering army from Faerghus have made no attempts to downplay the presence of their weapons and armour. The soldiers sitting around fire pits are in full kit. Metal gleams at their feet. They spring up as Claude approaches, kicking earth into the embers and more than once managing to upset the ever-present metal canteens of tea. Claude ignores it all, striding breezily through their ranks. There's suspicion, but no one questions him outright, choosing instead to watch him as a wary-eyed mass. It's a pain. He could've used some directions.

He eventually finds Duke Fraldarius towards the back of the army. He's leant in, having a furiously pitched whispered conversation with the two men in armour. A nearby boy - maybe a squire, knights have squires, probably - brushes the Duke's horse, but Claude knows the expression of someone who's trying to hang on to every word.

They're not particularly discreet.

"-If your son hadn't abandoned us-"

"Felix may do as he pleases, but he is no deserter," Duke Fraldarius hisses. Claude winks at the boy, who goes bright red and turns back to the horse without a word.

"But there is clear dereliction of duty-"

"And it is mine, not my son's. He might dislike his duty, but he would never ignore it-"

"Excuse me!" Claude says, brightly, and there's a gratifying clonk when the two armoured men startle and collide. "I'm here to see the Duke." Maybe they've forgotten who he is. Maybe he should have found something yellow, or a flag. Would they recognise one of their resistance flags?

The Faerghans share a look, but it's pretty clear the armoured men both defer to Duke Fraldarius. They step back, allowing the Duke to move forwards.

Claude stretches out his hand. The Duke glances at it. He pauses. "Duke Riegan," he says, finally, like he's been rolling the words around on his tongue. "Thank you for coming to see us. I apologise for the state of my camp."

"Thank you for inviting me," Claude says, trying to remember the wording from the earlier treaty, the letter Sylvain hadn't managed to deliver until it was almost too late. _ A unification of strength and purpose. _ "As we discussed, I'd like to formally agree on some terms for our cooperation in this ongoing endeavour. In our earlier negotiations you expressed an interest in a unification of strength and purpose. Of course, the position the Alliance is taking is-"

They're not listening. They're not even pretending to listen. He might as well be talking to himself in stilted formal diplomatese. Duke Fraldarius isn't doing anything untoward - he isn't pacing, frowning, shaking his head, anything that would make Claude think this was a mistake - but nonetheless, his attention is elsewhere.

"What is it?" Claude asks. "What happened? Is someone missing? Felix?"

"Not Felix," says Ser Gwendal, ignoring Gilbert's look of betrayal. "The king."

* * *

"Dimitri is missing?" Teach blinked, wiping their hands on a cloth. Claude had made his apologies and all but sprinted out of the Faerghan camp, excusing himself and insisting he needed to discuss this with the Archbishop. He found Teach at a rain barrel, hair and face dripping wet as they drank from it like a horse. He'd waited for them to finish, of course. He had some manners.

"So I've heard." Teach kept blinking, probably because they'd dried their hands and not their face. Fat droplets of water made tracks down their cheeks and chin. "You didn't see anything down on the field, did you?"

"We were occupied with the Empire," Teach says, face crumpling with confusion. "I didn't see anything if he ran-"

"Would anyone have taken him?" It feels horrible to say, to think that someone in their camp would betray them in such a way. But it needs to be aired, and Teach has always preferred to work through their thoughts out loud. He'd asked, once, and they'd said it was too noisy within their own head. Rather than trying to spend a lifetime unpicking what they meant by that he'd more or less let it go. "We know he has enemies who are working with the Empire."

Teach nods. "Even a mercenary might be interested in ransoming a prince."

It's possible, but it doesn't feel likely. "The only thing is… I left him with Duke Fraldarius. The rest of the Kingdom leadership were there too. I don't think a single person could get through to get to Dimitri. And they didn't say anything about being attacked by a larger force…"

"They suffered minimal losses in the battle," Teach says. "Any struggle should be obvious, and they were at full fighting power. A force that could sweep them aside wouldn't be easy to miss."

Things are starting to add up, but Claude doesn't like what he sees. "Would they have misplaced him? And blamed it on us? To make us look bad, or to prevent our alliance-"

"We have to consider that," Teach says. Claude's heart plummets.

"But they said they wanted to be allies…"

Teach is silent for a long, cold moment. A large drop forms on the end of their nose. "If I had_ said _that… and I wanted to change my mind…"

Claude sees the picture of it unfurling before him. There's only one thing they can do. "We have to find Dimitri first."

* * *

The camp is flattened; the few standing tents full of goods and weapons waiting to be loaded. He looks in each of them anyway. Only the Deer, who stood with him on the field and saw it happen, know for certain that Dimitri is alive, that he's back, and that he's going to join them. But can he tell anyone that Dimitri is missing?

He runs through the options as he walks. If it's genuine, then yes, the more eyes they can have out searching the better. And everyone who's with them will have to find out the truth sooner or later. But if it's not genuine…

If it's a ploy to cast suspicion, then everything hinges on Claude being able to find him. If he can do that, then they have no choice but to accept some form of co-operation, and he's used to dealing with stubborn old windbags at the Roundtable. If the Kingdom finds Dimitri, and he's been hidden away in their camp…? That would be a disaster. Even if it's genuine, and someone in their camp is hiding him, that means there's a traitor in their midst. Even still. Even now. And if not a traitor, then someone working against the idea of unification between the Imperial defectors-Church-Alliance alliance and Faerghus.

Who would gain from that? The Empire, firstly. All resistance to Edelgard's conquest would crumble. He'd suspected as much, hadn't he, back in Guardian Moon, when things had seemed too easy. Why wouldn't Hubert bide his time, and strike at the most critical moment? Except that he'd been out on the field himself, Edelgard taking the backline, and their personal guard had crumbled enough for Hilda to hold an axe above the Emperor's head. They hadn't been winning. But maybe he'd just wanted Claude to _ think _ they hadn't been winning, to-

He shakes his head. That's definitely overthinking it. The official Empire line is that Dimitri is dead, executed for treason. If they'd known he was still alive, they would have kept him under their control, not let him reunite with Duke Fraldarius. And if they found out he was alive, they'd still focus on Faerghus first, and redeploy their occupation forces to prevent a populist uprising. It probably isn't the empire. 

Plus, Lorenz had had the Kingdom under supervision from the moment they arrived. Dimitri would have had to be brought through their lines into the camp with no witnesses as his group packed away every sign of their residence. Even if Dimitri had been smuggled in to make them look bad, there wasn't really anywhere to hide him. Dimitri probably isn't in their camp, so if he's truly missing, he's been taken elsewhere.

So who, then? Unaffiliated mercenaries, looking to make money? Claude doesn't doubt that someone might be willing to pay for Dimitri, probably on either side but there must be easier targets. Dimitri is a big man, heavily armoured, and the last Claude had seen of him he'd been a dead weight in the Duke's arms. If he was planning a kidnapping, he'd take someone like Annette, or Lysithea. There are plenty of wealthy-looking nobles in camp who are portable.

Claude's left, then, with two more likely scenarios. The first is that Dimitri is not missing. Duke Fraldarius has pretended that he is in order to negate any treaty before it can be drawn and will reveal their prince at the perfect moment to humiliate and subdue the Alliance. He hopes that's not it. But the other - that Dimitri would just get up and walk away from the people who have given everything to keep him safe - seems ridiculous.

He needs to get a better view. Not Mira - she must be exhausted. But the others?

* * *

Marianne is alone by the pegasi tether. "Oh!" she says, with genuine surprise, "oh, you look so much better, I'm so glad-"

"Thanks. I feel it. Can I take one of the wyverns, just for a moment?" He peers around her shoulder. There's a heap of scales and horns as the wyverns nap together in a sunbeam. Mira's big flat face pokes out from the bottom of the pile, the tip of her tongue poking out from her mouth. She doesn't even look up at his voice.

"Go ahead," Marianne says. She sounds puzzled. "Are you going with Hilda? I did try to tell her she shouldn't do it alone, but she said you insisted."

Insisted on what? "Yeah," he says, heart sinking. "Sorry about that, I don't know what I was thinking. How far ahead is she?"

"Not far. She went a few minutes ago." Marianne finishes checking the hobbles, and stands up, dusting her hands. "Claude… I didn't want to say anything, because she was in a bit of a mood, but I was glad you sent her back. I don't think she was helping herself, staying here and fretting."

"I'm glad you think so. Have you seen anyone else?"

Marianne pauses, thinking. "I've been with Hilda, so I don't know exactly… I think Leonie just brought Jerrie back from the field?"

"Thanks. I'll go have a word with her. If you could - if there's a wyvern free-"

"Of course. But, Claude? What's going on? This isn't about Hilda taking news to Seteth, is it?"

He meets her eyes. "It isn't," he says, quietly. "But I can't tell you what it is yet."

"You don't have to tell me anything. Only if you need to." 

"Thank you," he says, again. "I wish I could, but…"

Her eyes shine. "I trust you, Claude. Please let me know if I can help, whatever it's with."

He wishes she could. "I will. Which way did Leonie go?"

Leonie's by the smoldering fire pit, raiding a sack. "Ah," she says, arms still inside. "Excellent, you can explain this. Where's the food? I'm starving."

"I don't know, I left Lorenz in charge of packing up the camp-"

"Oh, of course. That's so like him, to forget the professor and I were down on the field and would want to eat something. There's nothing in here anyway, it's disappointing. Did you see any rabbits down on the field?"

"You're not going hunting," Claude says. "But you could check the wagons. Lorenz said they were trying to pack the bulkier stuff first."

Leonie returns to rummaging in the sack.

"Hey, when you were down on the field, did you see anything strange? Anyone who maybe looked out of place, or looked like they were hiding something?"

She stops. "What do you mean? Claude, what's happened?"

"I can't say now, but-"

She snorts. "Sorry, but I need a bit more information than that."

"I don't know, someone who looked desperate, or like they were doing something they regret-"

"Do you know when the Imperial army last paid regular wages? Two years ago. Do you know when these guys last got paid? Pegasus Moon. They're all desperate, Claude. They want to be back at home, with their families. They've missed the early plantings but if they can return now they might just be able to get stuff in the ground for late harvest. Do you have any idea what it's like, living like that? They've all done something they regret. You have to. To survive."

She abandons the sack, sitting back. Claude doesn't know what to say.

"Sorry," she says, after a moment. "It's just. I've been thinking about it a lot more. With all this. I get why the professor asks me to talk to them, I do, and I don't mind it, but. It's frustrating, I guess. I can't fix it. It makes me feel so _ powerless _."

"Yeah. If only you knew someone like a Duke, or an Archbishop, or any one of the many noble heirs-" she makes a rude gesture, but he's pretty sure it's affectionate. "My hands are kind of tied right now, but I promise, after the war we're going to make a new kind of Fódlan, and you can tell us how."

She watches him for a moment, as if she doesn't quite believe it's true. "Sure," she says, finally. "Goodness knows what you'd do otherwise." She ties the sack closed, fingers flying against the rough material. "Thanks for listening. Like I said, it just gets… frustrating. I don't know. But your thing, let me help with your thing. What people did you think I might see down on the field?"

He falters. It's not that he doesn't trust her, not really. But he can't forget what she said earlier. There could have been hundreds of desperate people looking for an easy target. "Let's start with anyone from the Kingdom."

"The Kingdom? What, is Sylvain chasing a girl again? No, I didn't see anyone from… oh. Shit!"

"Leonie, what-"

"Oh, _ shit!! _I forgot about Felix!"

* * *

He lets Leonie take the wyvern Marianne saddled. He's not any closer to finding Dimitri, and now Hilda's missing too. The best thing to do would be to find Teach, and hope against all reason that their uncanny good luck has kicked in. Weren't they always good at finding lost things? Maybe Dimitri is like a board game piece, and Teach will appear with him at the perfect moment.

They're in the main command tent, brows knitted with genuine confusion at a map that's been turned upside down. He flips it around and their whole face brightens.

"You're good at making things make sense," they say. "Have you found Dimitri?"

"Not even close. No one's seen him or anything that could be him, and now Hilda's disappeared off somewhere on her wyvern."

"You didn't ask her to go back to the monastery?"

"No!"

Teach considers this. Their lips move silently as they think, as though they're arguing with themself. Finally, they say, "maybe she'll turn up. She can't have gone far."

Hilda in a good mood wouldn't have gone at all. She's in a temper, one that's been brewing for a long, long time. He has absolutely no idea how far or where it could take her. Back to the field? Back to Garreg Mach? There's another thought following it, that she might not return at all, but he can't think about that. It's Hilda. Hilda doesn't politic or scheme, she tells you what she expects from you and waits for you to carry it out. He can't even bring himself to imagine her really turning against them. Nothing about it seemed right. So what, then? Where had she gone? What did she do?

He needs to leave, to clear his head and make sense of it, but Teach holds out an arm, stopping him, and Claude's about to push through when there's a crash and a thump from outside. The tent poles rattle. Tessa shrieks.

"Claude? _ Professor? _" It's definitely Hilda, but her voice is wavering, which is something she normally only ever does on purpose, which means something's wrong.

Claude catches Teach’s eye, and he pulls back the curtain, and sure enough, there Hilda is, her wyvern sitting nervously, hair out of place, and a striking red mark starting to bloom on her face. She looks almost out of breath, which is unthinkable. 

"So," she says, and then stops. Tessa shuffles irritably, and she squeezes in with her legs to still her. "Ok, so I know you're mad at me, but, whatever. This is bigger than that. Did you know Dimitri is missing?"

"Hang on, how do you know-"

She looks at Claude darkly, and he feels a moment of irritation that she’s confessing this to cover something worse, something she doesn't want to admit in front of Teach. Hilda crosses her arms. "Oh my god, that doesn't even matter! Listen, there we were, watching the Imperial lines, and suddenly there he is, and I'm like, oh _ fuck _\- sorry professor-, he's going to get himself killed, and he's like, throwing them off but then there's this little girl and she had a knife and-"

"And?" Claude asks, and it’s sharper than he meant. Colder. He's almost frozen, barely moving, feeling pulled sharp and taut. She’s hiding something, something she knows he won’t be happy about, and the adrenaline that carried him through the day begins to thrum again in his veins. He feels hot and then cold all at once. Teach probably isn’t happy, but Claude can’t spare them a glance right now. _ What has she done? _

"And I literally don't even know why, but I guess I'd had enough, and I thought it would make things easier or better or some shit like that_ sorry professor _ so I just did it, so don't get mad-"

"Hilda. Where is he?"

Hilda looks miserable. "Tessa's sitting on him."

Hearing her name, the wyvern shifts, revealing a mound of rumpled black fur. She shrieks happily, and nudges the lump over. Dimitri's bright hair almost shines in the late afternoon light despite the mud. He is terrifyingly still.

"Oh-" breathes Claude. The tightness in his chest eases and what must be a thousand different feelings blossom at once - relief? Anticipation? Or maybe pride, overwhelming pride, undercutting what might be frustration or even anger, pride for her, the solution to a problem she hadn't even known he had. She hadn't abandoned them. She might have saved them. He really hopes Tessa hasn’t killed Dimitri.

"Is he alive?" Teach asks. Hilda shifts in her saddle, looking guilty.

"In my defence," she says, dropping one of her reins to point at the scarlet mark on her cheek. "He did hit me first."

The puddle of probably Dimitri groans.

* * *

Dimitri is clearly unwell. They have to try to look. In practice, this means that Dimitri is dragged inside the tent rather unceremoniously and Teach kneels over him, frowning.

"What?" Claude asks, even though he imagines he won't like the answer. "What's going on?"

"I don't know what the problem is," Teach says, after a moment, "and I don't know what to heal. I don't think it's just the bump?"

Dimitri is pale beneath the mud, and his breathing seems more ragged with every minute. Claude hasn't yet heard of a head wound that would do that.

"Hilda, you didn't-"

"I didn't," she snaps. "I told you, there were people on him, knives were involved, Tessa grabbed him, he hit me in the face-" she points to it, again, "and I hit him back and that's _ it _. I don't know what else is going on!"

"You didn't see anything strange about the knife?"

"No!" she says, indignant and cross, and then must soften, because she nudges Dimitri's arm with her foot. "If it was poison, or something… could you tell? You know about that kind of thing, right?"

His mind races. There's a number that induce tachycardia, feverishness, pale clammy skin and delirium but nothing he could say definitively. "I honestly couldn't, not just from this. Teach, could you…?"

"No," Teach says, mournfully. "Normally I only find the poison after I've eaten it." They try another spell, but it sparks and fizzles out. Dimitri moans into the mat.

There's not much to it. They have in the camp people who can not only heal but heal the right things. And unlike Teach, they've not skipped lunch to patch up ungrateful imperial troops in the middle of a field.

Hilda catches his eye, and sighs. "Come on, big girl. One more run."

Annette and Mercedes just about lose their minds when Tessa drops him off. In a second it goes from _ oh, Claude, what have you done now _to a bustle of activity. Annette starts gathering armfuls of equipment, pillows, blankets, anything she could carry, while Mercedes easily lifts Dimitri over to one of the cots. Claude becomes the eye of a storm of business, and there's nothing he can really do or say to help. He ducks out while he can, before Annette finds things he should be holding or Mercedes makes him join in with her prayers.

Lysithea catches him outside. "There you are," she says, half-scolding, half relieved. "I've been looking everywhere for you! Where have you been?"

"The same place I always am. On the front lines of diplomacy." He almost winces, but it probably sounds good enough, and he can't think about what he's saying. There is _ nothing _he can do, but even so he can't just leave them to work. What if they don't return Dimitri once they're done, and he doesn't get the chance to catch the Kingdom in this scheme? What if they're on it? He chews his bottom lip, staring at the horizon in case it wants to offer any answers. 

"I see," Lysithea says, after a moment. Her stomach growls. "You're busy. It's fine, I'll go-"

She'd wanted to speak to him after the battle. She'd been looking for him all around the camp. She'd skipped the chance to eat to catch him, even though she was exhausted. "No, wait. Wait. I'm sorry, Lys. You can tell me now."

She glares at the nickname, but it's familiar, a reflex more than a genuine annoyance. "If you're sure. I just need-" and Teach sprints up, skidding to a halt beside them. They aren't even out of breath.

"Okay," Lysithea says, and smoothes down the planes of fabric on her skirt. "Okay. Um. I don't really know where to start. I haven't ever told anyone else this before."

"Start at the beginning," Teach says, gently.

"Okay. What do you know about the Insurrection of the Seven?"

* * *

"And those monsters are why I'm like this. Who they are, and what they can do…" She trails off, and Teach takes her hand.

"That's horrible," Claude says. Lysithea's story has filled in gaps he never knew were missing, and things are falling into place with dreadful clarity. "Lysithea, that's-"

"I don't need pity," she says, and there's no anger behind it. "It's done. But I can't help but wonder if Edelgard, too…"

"If that is the case, and I'm just saying we don't know that for certain yet, why would she work with them? Why were they standing with her forces on the field?"

"I _ don't know _," says Lysithea. Like she's tired. Like it hurts her. Claude can't imagine how long she's been running through these thoughts, piecing it together, trying to make it make any kind of sense. She could have come to him sooner. He could have done more to help.

"She must have her reasons," Teach says. Claude can see Lysithea's hand is white-knuckled in their grip. She'd refused a hug, of course. "Oh! When we save Edelgard, we can ask her."

Claude lets out an involuntary laugh. "Whenever that happens, I'll let you ask first. I don't think I could get past _ hey Edelgard, why are you working with a force of genuine evil? _"

"I don't think they're evil."

"Well, I do!" Lysithea snaps. "Professor, I've just told you what happened to me, and you can't forget Monica or Kronya and what happened to-"

"I didn't forget. I can't forget. But because she's dead, I can't…"

"I thought you wanted revenge?"

Teach blinks, as if they've just remembered something. "But I got that. I still want to know why."

"Well, they're dead. If we'd known, we could have asked before we killed them." Teach had struck the final blow, the Sword of the Creator springing to life in their hands, snaking out and slashing Solon's throat. He'd fallen beside Monikronya, shuddering and grasping, and pale bluish fluid dripped down his front to puddle on the floor. It's not one of Claude's happiest memories.

"They're definitely dead?" Teach asks, and Lysithea lets out a little huff of impatience, or annoyance, or both.

"People die when they are killed," he says, and almost winces again, because he can't seem to stop saying nonsense today. It must be exhaustion. This is definitely going to help with the negotiations.

"Huh," says Teach, and seems to retreat inwards, lips moving as they think. They wait. Lysithea frowns. Her stomach rumbles. But Teach is brewing up to say something, and if it doesn't come now, it might not ever. "Huh," they say, again, face creasing. "But they can't change if they're dead. No one can. But I want to forgive them, and I can't forgive them if they don't change, but-"

"You want to forgive them?" He must sound incredulous. "After everything they did to you? To Lysithea? To Jeralt?"

Teach goes blank, truly blank, and Lysithea glares daggers at Claude again, vicious sharp stares that he can almost feel against his skin. Claude is struck by a wash of guilt. "Sorry," he says. "I don't mean to bring up Jeralt, or… I've never lost a family member. I can't even imagine what it's like."

For Lysithea and Teach to be able to stand here, and lay it all out like this… they're both stronger than he is. He's always thought of his parents as untouchable, unstoppable beings. They've never seemed mortal. It's stupid, he realises, naive and stupid to assume they could live forever. There's a strength to Teach and Lysithea, a core of iron, something that props them up to keep on standing. He doesn't know how they do it.

"You don't want to imagine it," Lysithea says, darkly. "And I don't need you to. I just want you to understand that we need to build a world where this can never, ever, ever ever ever happen again. Not to me, not to Edelgard, not to anybody."

She fidgets, and Teach releases her hand. With a few deft strokes, she draws magical lines in the air, and her two crests blaze in front of her, pulsing and sparking even in the bright light. "What these _ monsters _ wanted, I don't know. But I do know that whatever they did to me was to give me crests, two crests, and the pain they caused was all for that. To stop it ever happening again, we would…"

"We would have to get rid of crests," Claude finishes, and she nods. Trembles, even as the projection of light holds steady. "We can't just tell the nobility they don't matter. We need to get rid of them altogether. Lysithea, have you told Linhardt about this?"

"He knows I have two crests," she says, after a moment. There's a look of definite distaste accompanying that. "He figured it out! He's so annoying."

"He would be the best person to understand how to remove them," Claude says, gently, because Lysithea doesn't want to hear his thoughts on the matter of Linhardt's likeability right now. "You should go and tell him."

"I'll come too," Teach says, and squeezes her shoulder. "I'll keep him in line."

"Ugh! Fine. I guess I can. Where is he, anyway?"

"How should I know?" Claude asks, bewildered. Lysithea gives him a pointed look. It's the most judgemental inquiry he's ever felt. "Genuine question. I'm not - we're not…"

Not friends? Not even now? Not acquaintances, surely, they're well past that. But friends seems presumptive, assumptive, like Claude's demanding the final word on whether Linhardt likes his company or not. He has absolutely no idea how Linhardt feels about him. They _ have _ been spending more time together, and Linhardt isn't _ as _unpleasant as he was back in the Academy, but there's nothing in his conduct or behaviour that suggests Linhardt sees Claude as anything more than a timely convenience.

He's struck, suddenly, by the most vivid memory of Linhardt's hand brushing against the back of his neck before the battle, the warmth of his fingertips. And then earlier, the almost gentleness of his long fingers as he moved Claude's collar to assess his throat…

Teach coughs, and Claude realises his ears are burning, his face is burning, and he's been lost in thought. "I'll be here if you need me," he manages, roughly gesturing to the medical tent. "Good luck."

Lysithea gives him another look, but she doesn't say anything, and Teach spins around twice like a compass needle before leading her away. This is the problem with Linhardt. This is the crux of it. There's something about him that makes Claude irredeemably stupid and useless and only capable of saying the wrong things, blurting out whatever comes to mind. It's embarrassing. But maybe that's the explanation, that's the reason for it, and Linhardt keeps him around because he likes the feeling of superiority, and that would_ make sense _, because-

"Claude?" Mercedes says, tapping him on the shoulder. "He's awake."

* * *

Dimitri is awake, lucid, although a little sluggish. Most importantly of all, he recognises Claude enough to blink in surprise. Claude waves tentatively and Mercedes beams.

"Annie's had to go, she had a date," she says, bustling about putting tools away. Claude doesn't miss the metal bucket of pink-tinged water. "But I'm happy for you to take him. I'm just about done."

"Take me?" Dimitri says, and his voice sounds bleary with sleep. "Take me back to the Kingdom. I have to… I…"

"Have to what? What happened?"

Dimitri doesn't look at him, although his eye twitches. He almost regrets asking. He steps closer to Dimiri, who half-turns away, glaring at the ground. "Return me to the Kingdom. Let them see how I have failed."

"What happened, Dimitri?"

He barks out a laugh. "Who is that? You speak to the most miserable wretch. The most goddess-cursed monster. A foul beast capable only of destruction and pain."

"I don't understand." He wants to reach out to Dimitri, but there's something newly dangerous in the lucidity. He's not rolling on the ground trying to scratch out his eyes but this is worse, somehow, unnerving in a way that makes Claude's skin prickle and the hairs on his neck stand on end. Dimitri on the field was unstable, but could be contained. Dimitri on the bed is pure menace. Anger drips from every word.

"I am little more than a beast that craves blood. I was not satisfied… I had not spilled enough..."

"That's not an explanation. You owe us more than that."

Dimitri snarls. His teeth look terrible. "I owe you nothing. You are going to take me back to the Kingdom. Let them see my failures."

"I'm sure they don't," says Claude. He needs to get Dimitri out of here. "What do you think? Will you come with me willingly, or should we…?" He doesn't have any intention of doing so, but it's enough to make Dimitri hesitate. He seems to understand that he's isolated in enemy territory, that he doesn't have a weapon, and that if he wants Claude to stop trying to talk to him, giving in will be much faster than trying to fight him at every step. Besides, there's no chance Dimitri would prefer imprisonment after what Claude has heard about Cornelia. 

It takes a moment, Dimitri's eye darting back and forth between Claude, the tent, the ground, but he finally decides and stands upright on his own. He doesn't miss Mercedes hovering behind them, her tools forgotten and the first lines of an attack magic spell bleeding away in the air. He's not one hundred percent sure who she was targeting, but it's a relief either way. She would have stopped Dimitri, or she would have given Claude a quick death.

Dimitri pauses by the entrance. "You had to soil your hands with a worthless beast. You should have refused."

"I'm happy to see you too," Mercedes says. "Don't tear out any of the stitches for a day at least, okay?"

Claude leads Dimitri out before he can respond.

He doesn't bother to disguise Dimitri. The thing is - _ the thing is _ that everything he's doing is insane, and it doesn't make sense, and the camp is coming down anyway, so he might as well go for broke and just do it. Obviously a lot has happened to Dimitri over the last five years, more than Claude can even begin to imagine, and he's changed. Even if people _ do _ recognise him, what are they going to do? Stop Claude? For what? To say hi? It's a strange confidence, fizzy and precarious, but it's the best he's got. 

The camp is quiet. Dimitri shuffles along anyway with his head down, staring firmly at the floor and his feet. They drag with every step. It doesn't look like a triumphant return, but the tiny flicker of hope in Claude's chest reignites.

Duke Fraldarius and his proto-court are waiting about as close by as they can, although they don't appear to have broken protocol yet. Claude can't see Ingrid and Sylvain. They must be nearby. Dimitri is hunched over, but he seems to shrink even further into himself as they get closer to the blue banners. Maybe Claude was wrong to suggest they didn't hate him. Maybe Dimitri wasn't exaggerating.

The Duke sees them first. It's almost like he breaks into a run, and then stops himself, jerking into motion and out of it in one movement. "Your Highness-" he starts and then stops, awkwardly. Dimitri does nothing.

"One prince of Holy Faerghus," Claude says, offering a bow. "As requested. I found him for you."

The Duke, surprisingly, looks relieved. "Your Highness," he says, again, and Dimitri grunts in response. "I cannot express how worried we were. Are you well?"

"I am a failure," Dimitri says. "You would have been better to leave me for dead."

The Duke doesn't even blink. This is pretty common, then. Dimitri either blazes with rage or drips miserably onto the floor. They're the best people to handle it. "Your Highness," he says, kindly. "We were about to begin negotiations for our alliance with Duke Riegan's forces. Will you join us?"

Dimitri grunts, and the Faerghans look satisfied, so Claude begins.

* * *

"Of course, we will expecting his Highness to lead any future engagements with the Empire-"

Claude has to stop him there. "Please excuse me. On what authority?"

Duke Rodrigue Achilles Fraldarius leans back. They've retired to a very hastily assembled tent, and the armoured men had scurried around to find a chair for Dimitri and Dimitri alone. He'd refused it, of course, standing and looming in a corner, so after a moment the Duke had taken it and no one had stopped him. Was he the only one who actually wanted to sit for an hour's negotiation? The rest of the knights lurk behind the Duke, although technically they all face Dimitri. It's the oddest diplomatic envoy Claude has ever been part of. He'd decided to take the Duke's cue, and save his legs where possible by also requesting a chair. After a moment of furious whispering, they'd found him a barrel. He hadn't missed the significance of that.

"On his Highnesses authority," the Duke says, as though his Highness has tasked him to do this on his behalf and isn't currently crushing grass in the corner. "As he will be ascending to the throne as the king once we have unified Fódlan-"

"Wait, wait. I can't guarantee any of that-"

"But you are the current leader of the Leicester Alliance, are you not?" The Duke has a strangely naive stare. It's like he's asking Claude to prove him wrong.

"The Leicester Alliance is a small part of our coalition, and we don't make decisions unilaterally. I cannot agree to any outcome for the future of Fódlan without hearing the opinions of the representatives from the Church, those who sought amnesty from the Empire and those from the Kingdom-"

"There's no need for that," the Duke says, waving his hand. "They will support Dimitri. He is the rightful and legitimate king."

"To Faerghus, maybe, but not to Adrestia-"

"What does that matter?" The Duke seems genuinely confused. "Surely they will accept what they are given once we have won the war."

"_ Accept _ it? I don't- I'm not-". He can't formulate the thought. He bites back what he really wants to say about the world he wants to see. It's not the time or place for that. "I will not sign off any agreement that will leave any part of Fódlan with a government they just _ accept _. We're building a peace that lasts, or this is over. I mean it."

The knights share a look. The Duke watches Dimitri. Dimitri glowers at his own feet.

"Very well," the Duke says, finally. "We will discuss the future of Fódlan in more detail at a later date. Will you accept his Hignesses' experience as a military commander?"

The best inference Claude can draw is that he's been fighting alone for a few years. "Do you mean as a graduate of Garreg Mach, because many of our classmates and the Knights themselves are-"

"No," says the Duke, cutting Claude off again. "His Highness has a unique understanding of the current situation against the Empire. We are prepared to throw our full military weight behind his judgment."

That doesn't seem wise. "Are you sure? When I saw him on the field earlier, it was-"

"Inconsequential. His Highness is the only one who understands the gravity of the situation. For those we have lost…"

There's a ripple of movement as the Faerghans nod. "His Highness alone can honour those who fought for our freedom," Gilbert says, stiffly. "We cannot expect you to understand."

The Duke nods. "To honour their sacrifice."

This is bewildering. "What sacrifice? Western Faerghus surrendered without much bloodshed, and the empire has been at a stalemate with the East for the last five years-"

Gilbert starts to go red. "How dare you speak so lightly! Perhaps you do not, but we honour our dead. There is no reward greater, no finer sacrifice than to die for Faerghus-"

"Can't you see it?"

It's the first time Dimitri has spoken since the council began. His hands are trembling. "Can't you see the blood? It drips off everything I see!"

The knights glance at Duke Fraldarius. He shifts, as though he's going to stand. Dimitri turns. He's trembling now, his whole body shaking. There's something like an intake of breath, and Claude realises the Faerghans are _ worried _.

"Your Highness-" Duke Fraldarius holds out a hand.

"You're covered in it," Dimitri says, flatly. "But who's? My father? Glenn?"

The chair scrapes back. "Dimitri," the Duke says, flatly. "That's enough-"

"Leave me alone." The Duke takes a step forward. Dimitri lashes out with a trembling hand. "All of you! Leave me alone! Father, Glenn… Dedue… Let me be."

"Dimitri," the Duke says, again. The knights don't move. Claude feels his hand twitch at his hip, but of course there's nothing there. Failnaught must be packed away with the rest of his flight gear. He'd thought they'd won. "Dimitri, please… I can help you. I can make it go away."

"Dedue," Dimitri says, and his eye is unfocused, wavering somewhere beyond the Duke's shoulder. "Please, don't look at me like that. Please. I can't stand it."

"Your Highness," says Gilbert. "You must stop. Listen to His Grace."

"Dimitri," the Duke says again, softly. "Dedue isn't here anymore. Look at me. Let me help you."

The Duke reaches out. He's slow. Gentle, like quieting an animal. Claude holds his breath. But Dimitri doesn't move, doesn't even twitch, eye fixed on whatever he can see that they can't. Gilbert is moving too, Claude realises. Slowly. Carefully. Boxing Dimitri in.

"_ Dedue _," Dimitri says, like he's choking back a sob, and as the Duke's hand pauses a hair's breadth away from his chest his face changes. It's like it crumples. Splinters. And then he's pushing forwards in one smooth motion, shoulder slamming into the Duke. Duke Fraldarius flies backwards, smacking into the upright pole of the tent, and then Dimitri is gone, and Claude doesn't know which sound was worse; the wet crunching from the Duke at the moment of collision, or Dimitri's howl as he charges off into the camp.

He should say something, he thinks, it's so tense, his chest tight. But the words shrivel and die in his throat. There's nothing to say. This is what's been happening in the Kingdom for the last five years; they've made the mistake of letting him see it. Maybe they regret that. He needed to know.

He watches Dimitri's back, for a moment, but at least he's charging in the right direction - towards camp - and Claude thinks he'll run into people who will immediately understand that they need to stop him. With any luck, Hilda. She can knock him out again. So that's sorted, and Duke Fraldarius is trying to rise and he's still breathing, just about, so. So.

"The Alliance camp has been established for several weeks," he finds himself saying. "We have medical facilities. If you can carry him, I'll lead the way."

For once, they don't argue.

* * *

As luck would have it, Teach is in the medical tent. Things are being packed up - or rather, Mercedes is packing things up, and Teach is carefully unrolling each bandage in turn and lifting it to their ears. They see him coming. Claude can't read much into their lack of expression, but he's pretty sure Teach is feeling the same. _ What a day, huh. _

Mercedes startles, but Teach stays calm. "One Duke," Claude says, trying to keep it light. "Can you - please-" and the knights are arranging him on a cot before Claude can even finish asking. Mercedes still looks shocked, eyes darting from the Duke, to Claude, to Ser Gwendal, to… Ah. Of course. "Can you handle this?" Meaning, _ can we leave Teach alone? _ "Do you need help?" _ Can you break this to her? _

Mercedes smoothes her skirts. "Of course," she says, tonelessly. "Of course, I. Professor. I'm going to fetch another pair of hands. Okay?"

Teach is watching the knights strip back the Duke's armour. They're braiding a bandage into their hair without looking at it once. It's a little creepy. "Okay. You should run or you might miss the class reunion. This one isn't good for healing, so I'll keep it for me. Take his boots off and elevate his legs."

There's a bellow from somewhere in the camp. Mercedes sweeps out and Claude has to follow, has to leave them to it.

"Did you know," she says, searching for any sign of the commotion. She's holding up her skirts as she hurries, bobbing along at a half-jog's pace. He's just about keeping up. "Claude, _ did you know _ that he-"

"I guessed."

"_ Snickerdoodles," _ says Mercedes. There's no heat in it. "Who hurt the Duke?"

He doesn't want to say. It's not his secret to tell, even though he was there. Even though he saw it, he's struggling trying to put the images in order in his mind.

There's another bellow and a yelp. One, at least, he recognises. "Sylvain-" he says, and Mercedes nods tightly in agreement, and then they're running, her hand reaching back to pull him along when he stumbles. The ground's uneven, marked and rucked with all the remnants of their stay. They reach the central clearing after a few moments.

Teach wasn't wrong about the class reunion, at least.

What was once the camp's gathering ground is now completely bare. The only sign of their presence is the dark smear of ash from the main fire - an almost a perfect circle of black among the pale grass. It's eye-catching, arresting, and then it's gone as Dimitri and Sylvain topple over. Dimitri is on the ground - no, Sylvain is on the ground, Dimitri pinning him, snarling, savage, elbows locked as he tries to push free. Ingrid is beside them, and Claude barely understands what's happening as she slams into Dimitri's shoulder and sends him and Sylvain rolling over again. Annette grabs at their conjoined hands, Dimitri writhing and spitting under Sylvain's weight.

"Let go!" She's fearless. "Dimitri! Let him go!"

Mercedes rushes over. She takes the other hand, fingers deft even as a screeching metal sound rings out.

"Ashe," Sylvain gasps, "that's- my hand - can you-"

Claude can't help it. He joins Ashe, and after a terrifying amount of effort - how strong is Dimitri? - they manage to get Sylvain's left hand free. The gauntlet is dented and warped, some parts of the metal shorn free completely. Dimitri flails, free hand vicious and twisted, claw-like. Claude almost doesn't dodge in time.

Ingrid releases his shoulders. "Do you," she starts, and he realises she can't keep her eyes off Dimitri. "Claude, we need-"

He doesn't know what will work, only that something must have. "Earlier, Duke Fraldarius. He cast some kind of spell, I don't know it-"

Ingrid purses her lips. "Mercedes-"

"I'm here," Mercedes says, softly. She's already healing Sylvain's mangled hand, even as his other remained locked with Dimitri. Ashe and Annette try to restrain Dimitri's free arm. "I don't know it, though. Not specifically. Not for this."

Dimitri howls, again, and Ashe manages to get his arm pinned. Annette sits on it.

Claude doesn't miss Dimitri stiffening. "Stop it!" Ingrid calls. "You're going to hurt him!"

Dimitri has thrown his guardian apparent into a metal pole, put so much force into the hold on Sylvain that it crushed metal, and tried to claw his remaining eye out earlier. But sure. Don't hurt him now.

"I have an idea," Sylvain gasps, flexing his now bare hand. "Ingers, come here, need you-" and he catches her as soon as she's within reach, pulling her in between them to sit on Dimitri's chest. He grunts, trying to writhe and buck, but there's four people's bodyweight holding him down now. Mercedes moves to take and support Dimitri's head.

He has to look at Ingrid. Her face, for a just a moment, is almost gentle. Then it shifts. Claude knows the way her jaw sets and her shoulders square. "You were alive. This whole time. And you didn't come to us," she says, shifting her weight as Dimitri tries to throw her off. "Or write, or anything. Your Highness. We were so…"

Dimitri snarls. Claude needs to find others, more people, more bodies, because Dimitri's anger needs to be contained and this might just be working. "Worried?" Dimitri says, his lips curling up with anger. "_ You thought I was dead _."

"_ -Lost," _Ingrid says, and Sylvain stops flailing his free and newly-healed hand around, brings it to rest over her shoulder. "We were lost, without you."

Dimitri is still breathing heavily, but it's starting to slow. "I should have died."

"Well, the day's still young," Sylvain says. "But hear her out first. If you don't, she'll bring you back just to scold you."

Claude's eyesight must be failing, because Dimitri almost smiles.

"That's not-" and then Ingrid stops. She moves, putting her hands square on Dimitri's shoulders. Mercedes is still holding his head, pointing him towards Ingrid, but Claude doesn't miss that he's not fighting their hold anymore. Not really. "Look. Even if it's too much, even if you can't bear it… I'm glad you came over. It was good to see you again."

Dimitri does jerk at that, but Sylvain leans over and down, putting his hand over Dimitri's mouth. It pushes Ingrid along, but she doesn't complain. "Don't pull that face. And don't say she's lying, you know she isn't."

"Not just Ingrid. Everyone will be so happy to see you." That's Annette, who's next to Dimitri's hand. Not on it? Should she be on it? She reaches across Ashe, who reaches out to Ingrid, and then they seem to collapse in sequence, pressing one another down until they're all sprawled out on top of Dimitri. It's like they're hugging him, Claude thinks. Dimitri barged through their camp, screaming like a wounded animal and they're hugging him, holding him down.

Dimitri's free hand, limp on the grass, now forgotten, twitches once. Twice. Claude gets ready to grab it, pin it down if he makes so much as a threatening gesture.

"Welcome back," Mercedes says, Dimitri's head still cradled in her lap.

Claude turns away before he can see anyone start to cry. There's movement on the horizon, and he makes himself stand with about the same amount of effort it takes to make himself not scrub at his eyes. They're prickly, for some reason. Maybe some ash got into them from all the rolling around.

It's Leonie. "It's windy," he says, which doesn't feel necessary as soon as it comes out of his mouth.

"Sure," she says. "We need to get going. What's going on?"

"Uh. It's private."

"Sure. Ok, well, I found Felix so that's everyone, right?"

It must be. "Where is he?"

She jerks her thumb over Claude's shoulder. Felix is sitting next to the Faerghan pile. He's not close enough to touch it, seemingly keeping his hands to himself.

"Huh," he says, without really meaning to. "That's good, I guess."

Leonie's mouth twists. "I can put him back. He's still a miserable grumpy bastard, so I wouldn't mind-"

"No, it's fine. We're taking the whole Kingdom, right? We can take him." Felix has moved - or been moved, which feels more likely - within arms reach. They all seem to be laughing. He can't see anything of Dimitri beneath the crush of bodies, but that seems to be the point.

It's the flicker of movement that catches his attention as Leonie snaps into a salute. "Good afternoon, Duke Fraldarius!"

"Please," says Duke Fraldarius, from somewhere beyond and behind Claude's left ear. He tries not to whirl around. It's professionally embarrassing that he could be that easily caught out. "Miss Pinelli, how many times? You must call me Rodrigue. I insist."

Claude has no idea what's going on, but it makes Leonie smile. "In that case, Rodrigue, you should call me Leonie. How're you doing?"

"Never better," the Duke says, and he definitely doesn't look like a man who is still recovering from tantrum-induced sternum trauma. Maybe Teach was onto something with the bandages. "May I trouble you for some directions? I must speak to my son."

"He's just over there," and Claude motions to the pile. They're quieter, he thinks, and look almost apprehensive. What do they have to be scared of? Dimitri's calm, _ calmer, _ at least, they've reconnected with each other, they've even had a big hug. 

The Duke motions to bow, and it's strange watching Leonie return it, full and formal and oozing out respect. They could be here all day, saluting and oozing and respecting each other. "Let's continue this at Garreg Mach," he offers, mindful that the sun is halfway across the sky and they've pretty much run out of camp to pack up. "We would be happy for your force to join our convoy."

The Duke inclines his head in acknowledgement, but he must still be thinking about his son. "We will meet you along the road," he says. "Travel safely, Duke Riegan."

* * *

It's not until he's safely on the very last cart, cocooned in medical supplies, watching the bandages forgotten in Teach's hair catch and flutter in the breeze, that his curiosity bubbles over, and he can't _ not _ ask.

"So," he says, and Leonie barely looks up from where she's cutting some sorry-looking dried meat with her knife. "You know Duke Fraldarius?"

"I worked with him," she says, absently, eyes fixed on the flash of the blade against her thumb. "I told you about it. That winter I was in Faerghus. He needed a hired blade, I needed a noble patron who wouldn't immediately try to short change me. We get on. He's a decent guy."

"Huh," Claude says. "So earlier, on the field, that was-"

That makes her look up.

"Claude!"

"I don't know!" He puts his hands up, tries to bite back the laugh. "You sounded so serious!"

"That was- I had to say _ something _, okay?"

"Yeah. Anything. Except you definitely made him very, very mad."

"Yeah, well," she settles back, and it's not so much a sigh as an instruction that she's done with that breath. "Like I care what he thinks."

"Oh," Claude says, unable to help himself. "I mean, he definitely thinks you're-"

"Claude!!"

It's Teach's hand that saves him, grabbing his collar just in time to pull him out of the radius of Leonie's strike. He gets the waft of the meat she's still holding. "No fighting with knives," they say, eyes fixed on the road. "On the cart."

"Fine," says Leonie. The knife disappears. "Can we fight barehanded?"

Teach hums something, a snatch of a song Claude doesn't recognise. It's not an answer.

"I yield," Claude says, quickly, because she's not going to let it go otherwise. "I mean, _ because _ you said something, I probably owe you my life, so I can let this go. I can! I just want you to know-" and he's ready for it, this time, bouncing up onto his feet as she swings "-that I will always support you, no matter whom it is-"

"Go to hell," Leonie says, but there's little venom in it. "Professor, tell him to go hell."

"Go to Hilda," Teach says, absently. "I think she wanted you more."

He bows to Leonie before he clambers over the side. She looks like she wants to throw something at him, but considers everything around her too good to waste. He sticks his tongue out one last time, and jogs off towards the pegasi string before he can hear what she thinks of it.

Hilda's with Marianne, as expected. They've stopped, letting the pegasi nose at fresh grass on the verges. "Hey," he says, careful to give each of the pegasi plenty of room. "Can I have a word?"

They don't look at each other, but Marianne squeezes the hand she's holding. "Ugh, fine," Hilda says, and dismounts. "Be quick. I've had such a fucking day."

He waits until they're out of kicking and wing battering range. "I'll go first," he says, looking somewhere to the left of her forehead. "You went off without telling me anything, twice, got hurt, twice, and probably saved everything, twice. I feel like I should be mad at you. At least once. But-"

"I'm not sorry," Hilda says.

"I forgive yo- wait, what?"

"I'm not sorry," she repeats, and now she's glaring at him. "Not for going after Edelgard the first time or the second. Even if I didn't get her in the end. Whatever. I'm not sorry because I didn't do anything wrong."

"You didn't listen to my orders-"

"What orders? You shot off to play hero! We had to do what we thought was best-"

"I was fine," he says, carefully. "And I didn't have a building fall on me-"

"Because you-" she snaps, and he can feel her anger. Cold. Distilled. This isn't just about today. "_ Fuck! _ Fuck that! Should it have fallen on you instead?"

"What? No, I-" But he hesitated, and she can see that. She breathes out through her nose. It's the loudest sound in the convoy. "I never asked you to do that. I don't know why you did."

"Whatever. I'm not going to argue with you. You want to make yourself a target, fine. I'm done protecting you. Marianne-"

"Don't speak for me," Marianne says, voice carrying enough to make Claude realise they could have been quieter.

"-can speak for herself," Hilda says, as though she wasn't interrupted. "But I am _ fed up _ with busting my ass over this! And I'm not the only one! You want to be the big man, giving out _ orders _, I'm not going to stop you. But I thought you were better. I thought you actually cared about us. Whatever. I was wrong, I guess."

He doesn't know how to respond. He doesn't know what to say, at all, to any of it. He doesn't. He wouldn't.

"Hilda," he says, helplessly, but she climbs onto a pegasus and doesn't look back. Marianne gives him a look that might be sympathetic before clicking her tongue and starting the pegasus train moving onwards, leaving him in the swirling, eddying dust.

He's there for what feels like a long time. It feels like nothing and everything, and the sun is hot and his hands are cold and when Ignatz and Raphael pass with the heavy horses, he must look sad enough that they stop to check on him.

"Come and sit with me," Ignatz says, even though Claude has no idea what part of the horse he could possibly be referring to. He declines but that makes them insist he stay with them as he walks, and they don't let him refuse. The smell of the leather harnesses in the sun. Raphael's cheerful rumbling commentary. The blossoms all along the hedgerows. Life, continuing on. It's nice.

"-what do you think? Claude?"

He almost misses that Ignatz is talking to him. "Sorry, I missed the first bit."

"Iggy's going to paint something!"

Claude isn't sure if Ignatz ducks his head down with embarrassment, or because his glasses are slipping all over his face. "It's really not that exciting. I was just thinking about what you said earlier, and I thought… Someone will want to know, some day. How we did it. So it would be nice to have a record of how it was at the time."

"That's a good idea," he says, carefully, and Ignatz's face flushes in three separate areas - the tips of his ears, the centres of his cheeks, and strangely enough, his chin - before it manages to connect and his face glows red. "But I don't think you should do the battle. Do the camp, maybe. How it was." With tents, and laundry, and people, and life.

"Yeahh," Ignatz says, and then, "it could have been the last one, couldn't it? The last battle we ever fight? Well, that's maybe not the right word, maybe engage in, no-"

"Do a picture of us," Raphael says. "All of us, all smiling. And do a copy of it for Maya, so she knows we're all ok and she can stop worrying about her big bro."

"I like that," Claude says, and is surprised to find he means it. "You could call it _ The great Golden Deer class reunion of 1186 _." That's what is worth remembering. The people. The care of the medical tent. Leonie's speech to the wounded soldiers on the field. The Faerghans piling on Dimitri, smothering him with their care. Not the archer. Not Lysithea, trembling. Not the noise of a human body hitting a metal pole. "But you have to include Mira, front and centre-"

"Oh no," says Ignatz, quickly. "Oh no, I'm not good at animals, I really can't-" and Claude leaps in to defend her, heaping praises upon her big flat head, only for Raphael to offer himself as a model, and the argument about whether that's even feasible is enough to keep Claude warm until the Faerghans finally catch up, and everyone has to mount up and move double time to reach Garreg Mach before nightfall. Flayn and Seteth are waiting to welcome them back, and all Claude has to do is hand the integration of Faerghus over to them before dragging himself to his bedroom to collapse between the books and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Sorry about the wait!!!
> 
> Thank you to Birds, Harry, Tom, and rv for the last-minute game changer "snickerdoodles".
> 
> Thanks for sticking through this long and unintentional gap - who would have thought, huh? I hope however you're keeping you're keeping well. Thank you for all the comments and kudos too -hopefully I can get back to replying to those now the guilt of not writing isn't quite so strong.
> 
> No schedule estimate for the next one but when it does come 1. (Fontaines DC voice) it's gonna be big and 2. it will probably be a double update.
> 
> Still on tumblr as [wizling](https://wizling.tumblr.com/) (did you know you can italicise emoji?) and twitter as [vvizling](https://twitter.com/vvizling), and [pegasusknightz](https://twitter.com/pegasusknightz) where I say things like "this is my FE16 shitposting twitter" and then talk exclusively about Pelleas. 
> 
> Next chapter: The Hostages


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